


life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness

by Ianthine



Series: say hi to the jeffersons [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Constipation, Fluff, Happy Ending, Kissing, Light Angst, Lovers to Friends to Lovers, M/M, One Night Stands, Pining, Single Parents, Teacher/Parent, basically a romcom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 06:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5774929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ianthine/pseuds/Ianthine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite having to raise two kids by himself, Thomas Jefferson's got his life under control. At least until he finds out his daughter's new Government teacher is the guy he had a one-night stand with. From there, things get a little more complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness

**Author's Note:**

> I felt bad about my first fic for this ship turning angsty, so here's my way of trying to make it up to everyone. This wasn't meant to go above a couple of thousand words, but...this happened. I didn't have the heart to break it into chapters because that's not how I meant it to be read, so I hope you guys enjoy ~30k of this ship out of nowhere.
> 
> I make several not-so-sneaky references to Actual Historical Things, whether to fill in the blanks or to add some flavour. That being said, this was explicitly written with the characters from the musical in mind. If anyone was wondering: while writing this, my fancasts for the Jefferdaughters were Amandla Stenberg as Martha aka Patsy, and Quvenzhané Wallis as Mary aka Maria.

"I'm thinking about majoring in political science," Patsy said.  
  
As far as declarations from one's kids went, it wasn't particularly shocking. Still, it was news enough to make Thomas pause in the middle of adding butter to the saucepan of Kraft macaroni and cheese on the stove. With talk of college growing more serious, he'd gotten used to his seventeen-year-old daughter's constant doubts about what she wanted to do with her life. None of his attempts to support her had seemed like they were doing any good.  
  
And now there was this.  
  
Just in time, Thomas remembered to stir the macaroni. "That's new. What'd I miss?"  
  
"Well," Patsy said. There was a deliberate pause, and Thomas heard the clinking of bowls and cutlery as she set the table. "We've got a new teacher for AP Government."  
  
"And I'm guessing he's better than Hamilton? That's not saying much."  
  
"Mr Hamilton wasn't bad."  
  
"Mr Hamilton thought Julius Caesar was the greatest man who'd ever lived."  
  
"You do know he was joking, right?"  
  
Thomas snorted. "You have too much faith in him." Not that Alexander Hamilton was Thomas's problem any more, since he'd gotten fired a while ago. Which Thomas hadn't been the sole cause of, exactly. He'd just given things a nudge in the right direction. If anyone had sealed Hamilton's doom, it had been Hamilton himself. Mouthing off to Principal Adams hadn't helped his case.  
  
From the way Patsy sighed, Thomas didn't need to turn around to know she'd rolled her eyes.  
  
"Like you were saying about this Mr Madison," Thomas prompted.  
  
"Mr Madison...I didn't know what he'd be like at first since he was so serious and quiet — and yes, Dad, I know what you're gonna say, _after Hamilton, anyone would seem quiet—_ "  
  
Thomas, who'd been about to make that comment, decided to shut up and reach for the cheese sauce and milk carton instead.  
  
"But he's really smart," Patsy said. "Like, with some teachers, you can tell they know their stuff. And I guess he liked what I said in class discussions and how I wrote my essays, so he came and talked to me and told me about some readings he thought I'd be interested in, and the other day he said he thinks I should consider it, and...yeah."  
  
"What about you?" Thomas asked. "Do you think you'd like it?"  
  
Silence.  
  
"I think so?" Patsy said. "I mean, I don't really want to commit to anything yet since it's weird to think about actually choosing something, but from what Mr Madison said...I think I'd like it."  
  
"You don't need to have it set in stone yet," Thomas said. "God knows I was confused enough when I was your age."  
  
"Yeah, you were learning six languages at once," Patsy said. "If you _weren't_ confused, it'd mean something was very wrong."  
  
She was quiet for a while after that, but as Thomas was scooping the macaroni and cheese into the three bowls on the table, she asked, "How come you didn't go into political science?"  
  
Sometimes Thomas asked himself that question too. The problem had always been that he was interested in too much for one person. When he'd been in Patsy's position of having to choose a future, he'd agonised over law and philosophy and political science and botany and music and _more_. Because he wanted to do it. _All_ of it.  
  
He'd never regretted focusing on architecture, especially after he started raising his daughters alone and freelancing so he could stay closer to home, but sometimes he wondered what might've been if he'd chosen otherwise. Sometimes he told Patsy and Maria that he should be President, and it sounded like a joke. Mostly.  
  
"You know me, honey," Thomas said. "I'm a real Renaissance man."  
  
Patsy might've sighed heavily at this, but as she sat down at the table, Thomas noticed she looked more cheerful than she had in a while. He liked this Mr Madison for that alone. Already miles better than Hamilton, _that_ was for sure.  
  
Maria chose that moment to show up, and they could finally start eating.  
  
This sliver of time Thomas spent with his family usually consisted of listening to his daughters tell him about their day. Today it was mostly Maria, since Patsy had unloaded most of her thoughts on him while he was cooking, but when Maria ran out of words, Patsy turned to him.  
  
"Mr Madison said he wants to meet you," Patsy said, sounding resigned. Resigned because she knew that, if she hadn't brought it up, he would've done his own digging and scheduled a meeting anyway. "He really sounded like he wanted to, so I told him you're embarrassingly hands-on and you'd probably say yes."  
  
She said that like him wanting to be involved in his children's education was a bad thing. Granted, it'd once led to Patsy refusing to speak to him for a full day after he'd, as she put it, "almost punched Mr Hamilton." Which was unfair. If anyone had been ready to progress to fisticuffs, it was Hamilton. Not him.  
  
"Of course I'd like to meet with Mr Madison," Thomas said. "Any time he's free."  
  
"I'll tell him that," Patsy said, looking pained.  
  
Maria took that opportunity to cut in. "Since Henriette's coming over this Saturday, can I cover up the new pictures in the living room?"  
  
Thomas put his fork down. "And just why would you want to do that?"  
  
"They're creepy."  
  
"They are _not_ creepy—"  
  
"They are," Patsy chimed in. "Actual painted portraits. Of ancient white men. In our living room. How is that not creepy?"  
  
"Young lady, we've had this talk," Thomas said. "Those aren't just 'ancient white men', those are—"  
  
"Newton, Bacon, and Locke," Maria said, ticking them off on her fingers. "Your trinity of the three greatest men the world ever produced."  
  
"Which doesn't make them any less ancient," Patsy said. "Or white. Or men."  
  
To which Thomas could only frown and shake his head. If this Mr Madison hadn't given Patsy a proper appreciation for John Locke, he couldn't be all that great.

 

* * *

  
  
Putting aside Mr Madison's questionable lack of regard for one of the most brilliant minds of the Enlightenment, Thomas had meant it when he said he wanted to meet the teacher for himself. Not just to hear exactly what potential Mr Madison saw in Patsy that he thought could be directed towards political science specifically, although there was that. Mixed in with Thomas's own parental concern was a heavy dose of curiosity about this man he didn't know.  
  
At least until he walked into Mr Madison's classroom on the day of their meeting and got his first look at the man. At which point realization hit him like a brick: he knew Mr Madison. Actually, knew him a bit too well.  
  
The teacher himself must have been grading papers at his desk. He'd gotten to his feet when Thomas entered, had gotten his first look at Thomas, and was now standing there, hand awkwardly outstretched, looking as stunned as Thomas felt.  
  
And...oh, yeah. Thomas knew him. Except, when they'd last seen each other, both of them had been substantially less clothed.  
  
If there was ever a time to test out how good he would've been as a politician, it was right about now. Thomas only let himself be shocked for a second before he plastered a smile on his face and stepped forward for a handshake. Like a parent who was meeting their child's teacher for the first time. Like a _normal goddamn person_.  
  
Meanwhile, Mr Madison — James, if the name Thomas had spent a night moaning was his real name — was struggling with that. After what felt like an eternity, he took Thomas's hand and shook it.  
  
Thomas tried not to remember where else those hands had been.  
  
"It's good to finally meet you, Mr Jefferson," Madison said, and...well, shit. This might've been easier if he didn't have such a goddamn lovely voice. Or such a good face.  
  
A nice mouth, too. Not that Thomas was looking. Any more.  
  
"Please," Thomas said, "call me Thomas." _Shouldn't be hard, since you've got enough practice there,_ he thought but didn't say.  
  
Now that he'd gotten over the initial shock, James was handling this a bit better. "James Madison, but just James is fine if you prefer it. You, um, probably already..."  
  
"Yeah. I know."  
  
James cleared his throat. "Please, come have a seat."  
  
Thomas did, and made the mistake of putting his left hand on the desk for a moment. James's gaze flickered to the wedding ring on his finger, and Thomas immediately realised how that must look.  
  
_Shit,_ Thomas thought. Wait, but if James had arranged this meeting in the first place then surely, at some point along the road, when the subject of parents came up, he must've found out.  
  
There was no way Thomas could read any of that on James's face from the small, quick smile James flashed him. Friendly but distant, and only out of politeness. Thomas knew it to be miles from what his _real_ smile looked like. Or at least what Thomas thought was the guy's real smile based on the admittedly limited context they'd seen each other in.  
  
Before Thomas could clarify, James said, "You must know why I asked you to come here," and then he started saying stuff about Patsy and her potential that it took Thomas a moment to tune into because he was still so hung up on the wedding ring, and the opportunity to speak up passed and all Thomas could do was listen.  
  
Most of what James said was fairly standard. Of _course_ Patsy was a bright kid, just look at who her parents were. According to James, though, Patsy demonstrated plenty of interest alongside her aptitude. That was Thomas's work: he'd encouraged both his daughters to learn more about politics and philosophy, and he liked to think they'd both taken to it. Hell, he might've even suggested political science as a course of action a few weeks ago when Patsy had managed to make herself frantic thinking about the future, but he didn't think she'd heard anything he said during that time.  
  
Now that James had suggested it, Patsy seemed to have taken the idea to heart. The fact that James saw potential in his daughter — and, more importantly, made her see some potential in herself — made Thomas feel...some sort of way. Pleased, sure, and proud too. Grateful, maybe, although that sounded a bit watered-down.  
  
That part of the conversation wound down much the way Thomas had expected it to, with James encouraging him to support Patsy in this, and Thomas making appropriately parental remarks and all that. Everything normal.  
  
Except, of course, for that little unspoken fact in the room with them.  
  
Thomas thought he might be able to leave without anything being made of it, but at the end of it all, James said, "Mr Jefferson. Before you leave, there's something I'd like to clarify."  
  
The sound of that unnerved Thomas so much he automatically reached for his wedding ring so he could turn it over with the fingers of his other hand. That helped remind him what the problem was.  
  
He cleared his throat. "I just thought I should clarify — I'm not an adulterer."  
  
James blinked. The look on his face was pure _why the fuck are you telling me this_. Then clarity set in. "I never thought you were. I mean, I do know the circumstances."  
  
"Ah," Thomas said. "Well. Good to know."  
  
They fell silent again. It didn't seem like James was ever going to speak, so Thomas began to say, "It wasn't—"  
  
"I don't—"  
  
They stopped, having started to talk at the same time. Thomas gestured at James. _You first._  
  
"And I just want to clarify," James said, "that I don't make a habit of...that."  
  
Thomas assumed "that" was code for "taking a random man home and doing things to him that made him forget his own name." It surprised him how eager James was to clarify; if anything, Thomas should be the one looked upon as an irresponsible bastard here.  
  
"Not that there's anything wrong with that," Thomas said.  
  
"Some parents might not be so happy with the idea."  
  
That made Thomas chuckle. "I was right there with you in the room where it happened. Wouldn't say I have much right to make a fuss after that."  
  
"After teaching for a while, it wouldn't have surprised me at all," James said. "Especially not..." He trailed off, but Thomas got the gist of it.  
  
"Lemme guess," Thomas drawled. "The rest of the faculty warned you about what a nightmare I am."  
  
James's small grin was admission enough. "If they'd called you by your first name instead of saying 'Patsy's father', I might have gotten a clue earlier."  
  
"Speaking of her...I wanna make it real clear I don't do that whole thing either. The kids were staying with my sister for a weekend, and...well. It'd been two years since I last did anything like that."  
  
"I understand," James said. "Really." He coughed, more to deflect the awkward little pause that followed right after than out of any actual need to cough, Thomas guessed. "You were about to say something before I interrupted."  
  
"Oh, yeah," Thomas said. "That." He searched for the right words, all too aware they were having this conversation in his daughter's classroom. "About me leaving the way I did."  
  
Realisation dawned on James's face.  
  
"I'm guessing you see why I couldn't stay and cuddle," Thomas said.  
  
"I promise I wasn't upset about the lack of cuddling," James said with a wry smile. "Although it is a bit...concerning when someone leaves without a word. Especially when one is out of practice."  
  
It took Thomas a moment to make that compute. "Are you saying that you thought maybe...I thought it was bad?"  
  
James shrugged.  
  
Thomas couldn't stop himself — he laughed. James watched him with alarm.  
  
"Sorry, sorry," Thomas said. "Bad time to be laughing in your face, I know. I just...don't get me wrong, I'm real good at spur of the moment bullshit, but even I can't fake it _that_ hard."  
  
"Oh," James said. Sounding pleased, but trying not to show it.  
  
"Classroom inappropriate? Sorry."  
  
"I don't think any part of this is classroom appropriate, per se," James said.  
  
Definitely not. Least of all how Thomas was thinking about how it'd felt to kiss him, and thinking maybe, just maybe, he'd like to try again.  
  
That thought? Did not have a place here.  
  
"So, back to me walking out like that," Thomas said.  
  
"Mr Jefferson, really, it's no—"  
  
"You sure you can't let me make it up to you?"  
  
It'd sounded like the right thing to say. For about a second. Then James blinked, and, uh. If James wasn't so dark-skinned, Thomas was pretty sure he'd be seeing the guy blush right about then.  
  
"Not like that," Thomas hastened to clarify, realising a moment too late how his words could be misinterpreted. "Not a sex thing, just...let me take you out to dinner, maybe? I think 'platonic' is the word I'm looking for."  
  
Wait. Was it?  
  
On second thoughts, maybe that hadn't been the best thing to say. He'd just meant no sex, since there were a myriad of reasons it would be a bad idea for them to jump in the sack the very next time they saw each other, but...he wasn't about to try and untangle that. Part of him wanted James to refuse and spare him from further agony of not knowing what he wanted.  
  
"Well..." James looked thoughtful. Then he smiled at Thomas, and— Christ, there it was. That genuine smile that lit up his face, made it so goddamn lovely it was all Thomas could focus on. "I think I'd like that."  
  
"Then I hope you like French food." Thomas produced his business card from his pocket like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. "My number."  
  
James doubtfully eyed the business card before taking it, which meant he was one of those heathens who didn't see the virtues of the design Thomas had chosen. Apparently, there were lost souls in the world who didn't realise magenta on cream was a perfectly respectable colour scheme.  
  
"I'll be in touch," James said. "See you later, Mr Jefferson. Thomas."  
  
It was the first time he'd used Thomas's given name the whole conversation. And Thomas still thought he could listen to the way James said it a thousand times and not tire.

 

* * *

  
  
Thomas knew he had fucked up, reason number one being this: he'd asked Patsy's teacher out on a date, except he hastened to mention it was platonic before he could stop himself. And James had agreed. Which meant James would go into it with certain expectations, none of which involved them sticking their tongues down each other's throats.  
  
Also, Thomas couldn't stop thinking about the fucking sex. The fucking fucking, if you would.  
  
It wasn't even like he'd been on the trawl for a one-night stand, not the way regular people were. He was sober. Then again, he'd been sober since college. He hadn't even met James at a bar or a club or anywhere most people met strangers they ended up screwing.  
  
Here was how it had gone down:  
  
They'd met at one of those bookstore cafés, which wasn't a place Thomas would ever have expected to meet someone he'd end up having mindless sex with, but anyway. The place had been crowded, but Thomas had managed to snag a table for himself. He was relaxing with his book and the thought that he wouldn't have to rush home for an emergency since the girls were staying with his sister, and, sure, he'd taken his wedding ring off, but that was par for the course on the rare occasions he knew he didn't have his parental responsibilities and could therefore sweet-talk some woman he met for the sort of meaningless sex that was the only kind he could allow himself these days.  
  
Then he'd heard someone asking, "May I join you?"  
  
As it turned out, the person asking was a ridiculously attractive man. Much more attractive than any man who'd approached Thomas in a while, that was for sure. Unless the times he practised talking to himself in the mirror counted.  
  
In such a situation, Thomas had no problem with pulling out the charm. "Sure, go right ahead."  
  
It was easy. Too easy. Conversation flowed effortlessly from Thomas, as it did at times like this when he didn't have much of an investment in its outcome. He couldn't remember what they'd talked about, now, except that books had featured in heavily given the location. Whatever it had been, they'd found enough common ground to confirm Thomas's stirrings of interest, and it had been engrossing enough that James seemed to forget his coffee and his newly-purchased book existed at all.  
  
James had broken the touch barrier first: a light brush of his hand against Thomas's as he reached for his poor neglected coffee. And Thomas knew he had him. It'd been a while since someone had looked at him like that and he'd wanted them to. That one confirmation was all he'd needed to make his move.  
  
As it turned out, he hadn't even had to.  
  
"I've actually got several books on political philosophy back home," James had said. He met Thomas's eyes head-on, and if he'd seemed at all nervous in the beginning, only a hint of it remained now. He smiled, and— sweet Jesus. He probably toppled civilisations with that smile. "If you'd like to see?"  
  
Thomas, caught up in a sudden rush of lust to the head, had had to actively hunt around for his wit so he could say, in a tone that said he knew exactly what James meant, "That'd be _great._ "  
  
All it took.  
  
Now that the burning physical immediacy of it was behind him, Thomas could look back on it and see things differently. What stood out to him wasn't how good it had felt (very), or how much he'd liked another person wanting him, another person's body against his. Rather, it was James.  
  
Given his quiet, unassuming manner, Thomas hadn't expected him to be any sort of sex god, and he hadn't been. But he'd been...different. Even though he'd been fumbling at times, awkward at others, he'd been considerate as shit. Observant, too, and that might've been what took his skills in the sack over from "merely okay" to "pretty damn good". He'd read Thomas well, well enough to give him exactly what he needed when he needed it. And when he didn't know, he asked. Maybe Thomas was just jaded enough to find that far more hot than effortless skill and easy charisma would've been, but there it was.  
  
Another thing that stuck out: James had used Thomas's name a lot. Enough that Thomas noticed, and _that_ struck him as odd. They were basically strangers to each other, so it wasn't like it meant anything if James moaned _Thomas_ in his ear while they were getting it on. Worst of all, it was catching, and Thomas — who couldn't remember the last time he'd bothered to remember a non-Martha person's name all the way into the bedroom — had found himself gasping _James_ , and that...well, it was just strange. It gave the impression that he knew or gave a shit about the guy. Neither of which he did.  
  
They'd worn themselves out eventually and had been lying down side by side, trying to catch their breath, when James looked over at him and smiled. His gaze had been soft and a little sleepy, and then he'd leaned in and kissed Thomas on the cheek.  
  
And Thomas felt something which made him think: _Oh, shit._  
  
"That was amazing," James said.  
  
"Uh," Thomas said, staring up at the ceiling now. "Sure it was." Actually, he was trying to figure out how to extricate himself from this situation as fast as possible. Because, as it turned out, James Last-Name-Unknown was not the sort of guy you took in for a mindless fuck. Everything about what had just happened had felt too intensely intimate, and Thomas knew that for a fact if seeing James smile made him feel something that wasn't plain lust.  
  
God help him. He'd fucked someone it'd be far, far too easy to get attached to.  
  
He'd waited until James had dozed off next to him looking more peaceful than anyone should have had the right to. Then he'd done the bare minimum of clean-up on himself, thrown his clothes on, and skedaddled.  
  
Thomas talked himself into not feeling bad about it while he was in the shower, trying to get clean and get the last traces of James's scent off him. This was how things went sometimes, and if James hadn't learned that already — which he clearly hadn't, given that he'd practically gone and turned near-anonymous sex into love-making — it would be much better for him once he did. Anyway, it wasn't like Thomas would see him again.  
  
Except Thomas had. Not only that, but he was going to see James again of his own initiative.  
  
Sometimes he didn't know where his grand plans came from either.  


* * *

  
  
Upon getting home, Thomas found a text on his phone from someone not in his contacts, that read, _Hello, Thomas. : ) It's James._  
  
That exactly. With a fucking smiley face and everything.  
  
For his own part, Thomas fired off a quick greeting and entered James into his phone's contacts. He didn't think much more of it until he was making dinner, Maria helping him in the kitchen this time, and he stepped away briefly only to find another text.  
  
**James:** _Remember how you asked if I like French food...?_  
  
_Oh no_ was Thomas's eloquent reply.  
  
**James:** _I've never tried. Not authentic French food._  
  
**Thomas:** _I'm going to pretend you didn't make me read that with my own 2 eyes  
But that's fine, I will just have to educate you on les joies de la cuisine française_  
  
**James:** _I would like that. Does Friday evening work for you?_  
  
**Thomas:** _Sure let's do dinner. I can dick you up at yours around 7 if you like_  
  
At the exact moment he realised there was something wrong with what he'd sent, Maria started shrieking from the kitchen that "DAD, OH MY GOD, EVERYTHING IS ON FIRE," and he almost dropped his phone in his haste to get there.  
  
As it turned out, everything was _not_ on fire. Dinner would be a little burned, but he managed to salvage the situation.  
  
"Sorry," Maria said, looking at her feet.  
  
"It's all right, kiddo. I should've been paying more attention." He ruffled her curls, which made her squeal and duck away from him, then fished for his phone again.  
  
And there it was. Staring back at him. _I can dick you up at yours._ Thomas didn't know whether to blame autocorrect or Freud. Probably old Sigmund, since "d" and "p" weren't even anywhere near each other.  
  
Either way, he fucking hated everything.  
  
He dared let himself read James's response.  
  
**James:** _I assume you meant to write "prick", and yes, that would be nice. Thank you._  
  
Another text, one apparently been sent immediately afterwards: _*pick. I'm reasonably sure you meant "pick."_  
  
Okay, so it was contagious. Thomas breathed a sigh of relief for the fact that they were adult enough to let a few suggestive typos slide. He sent back an _Ok good see you then_ and set his phone down heavily on the table.  
  
Maria was regarding him with raised eyebrows. She looked more like her mother every day; that particular expression was almost pure Martha.  
  
"You make fun of Patsy for texting so much," she said at last.  
  
"And I almost just burned our dinner," Thomas agreed. "Sorry, honey, but your father is a disgusting hypocrite."  
  
"Who was that?" she asked.  
  
Nothing like honesty to show he had nothing to hide. "Patsy's teacher. Mr Madison."  
  
"Oh," Maria said. "So how much are you paying him to write Patsy's college recommendation?"  
  
"Mary Jefferson, I sure hope you don't make jokes like that at school. The last thing I need is one of your teachers coming after me again."  
  
"Yeah, they hate you enough already," Maria agreed. "Good thing you give enough money to our schools that they can't get rid of us just to get rid of you."  
  
God, how'd he manage to raise such a cynical kid?  
  
"What's this about someone getting paid to write my college recommendation?" Patsy said. Jesus, where'd she come from?  
  
Thomas glanced at Maria, but she turned to Patsy and made a conspicuous show of zipping her lips.  
  
" _Dad,_ " Patsy said, already sounding ready to accuse him of something he didn't do.  
  
"Y'all have such little faith in me," Thomas said. "Nobody's getting paid to write anything. Your sister just has a strange sense of humour."  
  
"Wow, I wonder where she got it from," Patsy drawled.  
  
Okay, now that was just unfair.  


* * *

  
Friday came, bringing with it his planned dinner with James. Mentally, Thomas had already re-framed it to be less anything approaching a date, and more...saving an uncultured soul who'd never tasted French cuisine in his life. That worked.  
  
He'd forewarned the girls about having plans for the night, and they both wanted to stay home and get cosy with the Netflix subscription, so that worked out for everyone involved. They'd seemed a little surprised by the news that he was going out but hadn't really asked about it.  
  
At least until he emerged from his bedroom and entered the living room, at which point he noticed both his daughters staring at him from the couch.  
  
"Dad," Maria said at last, "are you going on a date?"  
  
"What? Of course not. What makes you think that?"  
  
Patsy was squinting at him. "You look a lot, uh...shinier."  
  
"Kinda ruffly, too," Maria said.  
  
"And," Patsy said, "you only wear that outfit on special occasions. So...what's up?"  
  
"I told you, I'm not on a date," Thomas said. "If you must know, Mr Madison and I are going to a nice restaurant. We really hit it off and I'd like to get to know him better."  
  
"Oh my God, you're actually trying to befriend one of my teachers." Patsy looked mortified. "You're trying to push John Locke on him, aren't you?"  
  
So she bought it. Or she simply didn't want to read anything into it. Not like any teenager would've _wanted_ to. Also, his kids still thought he was straight since he'd never given them a reason to think otherwise. He might've even blurted out some vaguely ignorant things in front of Patsy back when she'd taken it upon herself to educate her poor prejudiced father about the struggles of the LGBT community.  
  
"You wait," Thomas said. "I'll have him seeing the light soon enough."  
  
"As long as you two don't start brawling," Patsy said. "You tend to do that with my Government teachers."  
  
"For the last time, I did _not_ brawl with Hamilton. He was the one getting all argumentative, not me. I was perfectly level-headed throughout."  
  
"Sure you were."  
  
There was no convincing some people, Thomas thought. "Anyway, I'm out. Y'all be good while I'm gone."  
  
"Don't be too mean to Mr Madison."  
  
"I promise he'll still be in one piece by the time I'm done with him," Thomas said, and then left to test that theory.

 

* * *

  
James lived a few blocks away, so it took almost no time at all to arrive at his place. They greeted each other politely enough but spent the first part of the car ride in silence. At least until they reached a red light and James spoke up.  
  
"I thought conversation might be a bit difficult to get going at first," James said, "so I brought a stack of essays. I was hoping we could grade them together as a conversation starter."  
  
"My God, did you really?" Thomas looked over at him. James's tone had been perfectly serious, but there was something about the exaggerated solemness in his expression that made Thomas want to call bullshit. "Okay, so you didn't."  
  
"Do you really think I'd do that?" James said.  
  
"Hell if I know," Thomas said. "You sounded so serious just now you almost had me. How many of the kids you teach actually get your little jokes?"  
  
"Enough of them," James said.  
  
"Bet you deny anything ever happened if they try to point it out," Thomas said.  
  
"How did you guess?"  
  
Thomas thought that might've been a smile in James's voice, but then the light turned green and he was too busy keeping his eyes on the road to check. Much as he wanted to.  
  
At least James's little jest opened up the conversation; the talk flowed more freely after that. Inconsequential talk about the restaurant they'd be going to, which Thomas withheld details of to preserve _un air de mystère_. And of course the ever-present how-was-your-day. (As far as Thomas could gather, James was glad it was the weekend.)  
  
When silence fell the next time, it fit more comfortably than the silences before it.  
  
The restaurant itself was much as Thomas remembered it. He'd found it a few years ago and had started taking Patsy and Maria there on special occasions sometimes, ignoring the people who glared at him for daring to bring a kid to a semi-nice restaurant. For fuck's sake, Maria had better table manners than any of them.  
  
In good time, a waiter came by with the menu. The wait-staff were familiar enough with him not to bother presenting him with the wine list, but it made James look at him oddly. When they were left alone to make up their minds, Thomas decided to mention it.  
  
"I sort of stopped drinking," he said.  
  
"And here I thought you spend your evenings at home lounging with a silk robe and a nice Merlot."  
  
"I eat alcohol if it's cooked, not like I could eat French cuisine otherwise since there's wine in damn near everything. But I've found it's easier to raise two kids when I'm sober." That plus a lingering fear that if he started, he wouldn't be able to stop. There was a sort of person he could have turned into in the wake of Martha's death; if he'd still been that college kid, he would've gone and done it, but not when he had two children to take care of.  
  
"Ah," James said, as if he understood everything.  
  
"Back to what you just said, though," Thomas said. "Sounds to me like you formed a mental image. Put a _lot_ of thought into that." He flashed James a grin.  
  
It took James a moment to catch up to what Thomas was saying. He groaned. "That's not...you know what I mean."  
  
"I know, I know," Thomas said. And still he couldn't resist poking fun. "So this imaginary robe...what colour is it?"  
  
"For the sake of the argument, let's say it's the same wonderful purple as your shirt," James said, opening his menu. Mild alarm crossed his face when he got his first look at what was inside. Then he relaxed. "So there is an English translation underneath each dish after all."  
  
"Mm," Thomas said. "I thought that was a bit of a sell-out, personally."  
  
James raised his eyebrows. "A sell-out to have a menu most people can actually understand?"  
  
"Yeah, you're right, that did sound a little extreme," Thomas said. "After all, it's not like this is where I come for exclusivity or anything. I have other places for that."  
  
James blinked, looked like he was about to say something, then went back to his menu.  
  
They managed to get their orders out. Thomas ordered first — all in French, of course — and found himself unduly impressed when James made the effort to use the original names for the dishes when it was his turn. Turned out James's pronunciation was impeccable for someone who didn't have enough French to read a menu. If there were any missteps, his voice more than made up for them. Not that Thomas would ever have compromised his integrity as a Francophile by admitting that.  
  
"So you're fluent in French," James said once the waiter left.  
  
"Among others," Thomas said.  
  
"Which ones?" James seemed genuinely interested.  
  
"Besides English and French? Spanish, Italian, Greek, and Latin."  
  
"Out of those, I can only lay claim to Greek and Latin."  
  
All right, Thomas hadn't been expecting that. No wonder he'd felt a draw towards James during their very first conversation. "Greek _and_ Latin? And you ended up teaching high school?"  
  
"I wouldn't say I ended up anywhere," James said. His tone was mild but brooked no argument. "I like what I do."  
  
"Frankly, I can't imagine dealing with kids all day long," Thomas said. "The only kids I like are my own. Everyone else's can stay all the way over there."  
  
James laughed, sounding like he'd been surprised into it. Thomas hadn't been kidding, but he also wasn't about to complain about that reaction. Actually, he wouldn't mind it if James laughed a whole lot more.  
  
"So," Thomas said. "Greek and Latin. How'd that happen?"  
  
James was willing to answer him, and somehow they both ended up discussing the strange paths their respective educations had taken. It was an interesting bit of conversation, even if Thomas had a moment at the beginning where—  
  
"Hold up," Thomas said, "you're _how_ old, exactly?"  
  
"Thirty."  
  
Eight years wasn't bad considering they were both adults, but it was still strange to think James hadn't even been in high school while Thomas was off getting ready for the birth of his first kid.  
  
"I figured you were closer to my age," Thomas admitted. "I'm thirty-eight."  
  
James looked amused. "Do I look it?"  
  
"You act it," Thomas said, "and...hold on, are you suggesting I look my age?"  
  
James hastened to explain that, no, he wasn't suggesting that.  
  
Once the conversation crossed that little speed bump, Thomas found James impressed him more with each word he spoke. It felt like a waste, like he should've been doing something else instead of explaining to teenagers how the government worked, since he was apparently smart enough that he could've done _basically anything else_ with his life. But James seemed to like it enough, and Thomas thought he might've committed a _faux pas_ by suggesting otherwise, so he let the matter drop.  
  
Not that being smart didn't have its consequences. In James's case, he'd managed to wreck his health in college by working too hard and not getting enough sleep. He still felt the effects of it sometimes — as far as Thomas could tell, flu season was always a bad time for him.  
  
"I don't get sick much these days, luckily," James said as the waiter set down their appetisers in front of them. "But it happens more often than I'd like. I'm a bit like a poorly-planned nation in that sense."  
  
"Say what?"  
  
"I have a weak constitution."  
  
Thomas paused with a forkful of appetiser halfway to his mouth. The words sank in.  
  
James looked like he was trying very hard not to smile at his own cleverness, but even though he was straight-faced his eyes were getting crinkly at the corners.  
  
"My God," Thomas said. "I hope your students throw things at you when you pull that shit in the classroom. That pun was...'appalling' is not the word I'm looking for." He could feel laughter threatening to bubble up, which was completely fucking ridiculous when a joke of that calibre didn't even deserve a withering glance. Still, the effects of it were extreme enough that he ended up looking away and chuckling quietly anyway despite his best efforts. More at James's determination to look perfectly innocent even in the face of having inflicted that.  
  
James was looking at him in a new, appreciative way. Most people probably knew better than to laugh at his jokes.  
  
But the mention of the classroom turned the talk to jobs, at least for a little bit. Thomas didn't know how to talk about his job to most people without boring them senseless. He'd been horrified to realise he could easily imagine going on a half-hour rant about stairs and how they were way more fucking complicated to detail than anyone who'd never had to design them would know. These days he stuck to saying he favoured a style of architecture he liked to call 'keeping all the pretty bits upfront and the ugly things tucked away in a corner somewhere', and leaving it at that.  
  
But he was interested in what James would say now that he'd loosened up and they weren't in his classroom. Even so, he wasn't expecting James to admit Patsy frightened him a little.  
  
"What d'you mean, she frightens you?"  
  
"I've stopped by the debate club," James said. "Every time Patsy was on, I felt like I needed to call 911 and tell them I witnessed a murder."  
  
"That's my girl," Thomas said fondly. "Verbally flaying all those who would dare to oppose her. Just like her father."  
  
"I never would have expected her to be so...outspoken," James said. "She seemed shy in the beginning."  
  
"Both my kids seem shy until you get to know them," Thomas said. "They must get it from me."  
  
James was in the middle of a bite of food just then, and though he was too dignified to start hacking dramatically and pretending to choke on his food in surprise, Thomas thought it might've been a near thing.  
  
"You," James said. "Shy."  
  
"I'll have you know, Mr Madison, that I am mild-mannered, demure, and—"  
  
He had to stop then. James was laughing too hard to listen.  
  
"You don't even know," Thomas said, a bit indignant. "You've just heard about me second-hand."  
  
"I have enough evidence to piece together," James said. "Between eyewitness accounts and personal experience with your demonstrated lack of shyness—"  
  
"Yeah, well, I grew out of it," Thomas said. "But you should've seen me in high school. I thought I screwed things up asking Martha out and I stayed home with a headache for three days."  
  
It was, he thought, different when he cared. Even these days — if he was ever romantically interested in anyone these days, which he wasn't — he probably wouldn't have done so great at being smooth if it was someone he liked. It was easy to charm when he didn't give a shit. Like, say, flirting with a random guy in a bookstore café.  
  
A random guy who wasn't so random any more, but that didn't change things in the least.  
  
Thomas had somehow made it this far without dwelling on the way they'd met, and somehow they made it all the way through the main course talking about nice, normal things. Not that awkwardness didn't creep in sometimes.  
  
It was only when dessert got there that Thomas felt like he was going to burst.  
  
He put his spoon down. "About what this is," he began.  
  
"I was under the impression it's tarte Tatin," James said mildly. "At least that's what I ordered."  
  
"Dear God."  
  
"Sorry," James said. "Inappropriately timed humour?"  
  
"No, no, that's good. Lighten things a bit," Thomas said. "But I wanted to mention — I didn't ask you out so I could get you into bed again."  
  
Where the fuck had that come from?  
  
"Didn't we clarify that the other day?"  
  
"I wanted to clarify," Thomas said, "more."  
  
"Well, all right."  
  
"I mean, the sex was great," Thomas said, and a nearby waiter delicately skirted away from their table.  
  
James looked around. Probably trying to see if anyone he knew was in the restaurant with them.  
  
"But I'm not really in the market for the whole meaningless sex sort of thing right now," Thomas continued, even though part of his mind was screaming at him to stop right there. Truth be told, he couldn't deny still being in lust with James, if the times he'd found his gaze drawn to James's mouth during this conversation were any indicator. But. He couldn't shake off that _thing_ he'd felt after the first time, telling him that getting all physically intimate with James would be a good way to land himself deep in emotional shit.  
  
"I understand completely," James said. "That's not what I'm looking for right now either. I was hoping for something more substantial." He met Thomas's gaze.  
  
Thomas's heart did a flip. He sort of wanted to add that he didn't do that whole thing either, and he sort of didn't want to.  
  
Before he could choose either way, James went on. "I really moved up here not too long ago, and I barely know anyone, so. I guess I'm saying I wouldn't mind keeping in touch...that is, if friends are something you're in the market for." A small smile. "I guess you could say I'm lonely."  
  
It was such a stark admission. Thomas barely admitted it to himself, since he had his two daughters with him. And a bunch of family members living in another state. And friends, most of whom also lived out-of-state and all of whom he'd drifted from for various reasons, whether because it'd become fucking hard to maintain relationships at some point, or because he was a shitty friend in general.  
  
Thomas didn't mind. Thomas liked his daughters. But sometimes it'd be nice to step out of that role for a bit and have someone he could just _talk_ to. Like they'd been doing so far.  
  
"Well, don't I know that feeling," Thomas murmured. He'd never said it aloud before, but something in James's eyes made him able to admit it. "Similar boat, I suppose. And it's not every day I meet a kindred spirit who knows both Greek and Latin."  
  
"Or has such varied knowledge of political philosophy," James said. "Maybe we were meant to meet and get to know each other."  
  
"Sure, maybe we're soulmates. Platonically, that is."  
  
Although his thoughts kept flickering to how he'd like to get reacquainted with James in a less platonic sense. Some sort of leftover lust. It'd fade away if he got to know the guy well enough, he was sure.  
  
"Well," James said. "It's not exactly a...conventional start to an acquaintanceship."  
  
"Nah. Seems to be working out fine, though." Now that was settled, he felt more comfortable digging into his dessert. "Even after I ran off the way I did." He glanced at James, trying to discern the look on his face.  
  
What surprised him was how James said, "I didn't expect you to stick around."  
  
"No?"  
  
James looked at him warily. "Do you want me to be blunt?"  
  
"By all means."  
  
"When we started talking, I thought you didn't seem like the sort of person to— how'd you put it the other day? Stay around and cuddle."  
  
Thomas was silent for a few seconds. Then: "It's the cologne, isn't it."  
  
"It's not a bad cologne," James said. "It just...has a personality of its own."  
  
"No kidding."  
  
"I was willing to be proven wrong," James said reassuringly. "I'd even started making plans for the pancake mix I had lying around."  
  
"You were giving me the benefit of the doubt. Great. That makes me look even more like an asshole." The last part of that only just sank in. "Wait. You make breakfast for all your one-night stands?"  
  
"I told you, I don't make a thing of one-night stands," James said. "But yes, I would have made pancakes for you."  
  
"Pancakes. Jesus. If only my meaningless sex jaunts in college had all been that nice." He was almost tempted to ask what James thought of cuddling and whether he preferred being the big spoon or the little spoon, but that ended up leading to mental images Thomas didn't need in his life.  
  
At the end of it all, Thomas picked up the check despite James's token protests, since after all, the entire purpose of this dinner had been to make up for that little thing of running off on him. Then they were back in Thomas's car, and Thomas drove back to James's place.  
  
He hadn't been lying to Patsy and Maria about it not being a date. If this was a date, it would have ended with the possibility of a kiss. Here, there was none. Much as Thomas might have wished it.  
  
"We should do this again sometime," James said. "I can't make a big thing of going out that often, but maybe we could meet up for a coffee sometime."  
  
Thomas was reasonably sure that "coffee" was not code for anything. They'd established how things were between them, and he wasn't about to break that.  
  
"Sure," Thomas said. "You've got my number. Just text me when you're free and we can work something out."  
  
"I will. See you, Thomas."  
  
Then James got out, leaving Thomas alone in his car.  


* * *

  
  
It became a routine.  
  
Turned out there was a coffee shop not too far from either of their places, and they met up when they had a free hour in the afternoon. At first they talked, probably teaching the other regulars more than they'd ever want to know about political philosophy and the study of Latin; as time went on, they got more comfortable sitting in silence and doing their own thing, with Thomas reading a book while James graded essays as he'd joked about that first time.  
  
Considering how the entire thing started, Thomas should have been happy he was allowed something as normal as this friendship. It wasn't every day a one-night stand turned out so well.  
  
Now if only James Madison's disgustingly attractive face didn't have to go and complicate matters. The guy could do things with his mouth that defied belief, but Thomas just sat opposite him a few times a week and pretended not to know that. God, _why_ had he gone and ruled casual sex out of the equation? Any fears he'd had about what getting intimate with James might lead to were obviously unfounded. They were friends, and the idea their friendship could turn into something else beyond sex was no longer a thing.  
  
In Thomas's opinion, they could easily go from friends to friends with benefits, without anything going amiss. But James had said he didn't want to do casual sex anyway, and here they were.  
  
The strangest part was that there was actual flirting sometimes. Except James was shitty at flirting. Not shitty in the awkward, cringe-worthy way, but shitty as in way more goddamn confusing than Thomas wanted to deal with. James was good for maybe a few lines of flirtatious banter before he steered the conversation elsewhere so abruptly that Thomas almost got whiplash. Not exactly encouraging.  
  
They were at the coffee shop together one day when James glanced up from a stack of essays and said, "May I ask you something? It's a bit personal."  
  
Thomas put his book down. "Go on."  
  
"Are you..." James hesitated. "Straight?"  
  
Of all the things Thomas expected him to ask, that was not one of them. He'd kind of thought the whole thing was fairly self-explanatory.  
  
"You say that like you didn't have me naked in your bed," Thomas said. "Why, James, I'm disappointed. Am I that forgettable?"  
  
James's expression changed to what Thomas had begun to think of as his blushing face — the embarrassed set of his mouth which looked it would have been accompanied by a flush if he wasn't so very dark-skinned. "I remember fine, but that doesn't signify."  
  
Wow. Okay. Thomas was very interested to know what _did_ signify, if that didn't. Also interested to know what other types of guys James had slept with if this was even in question.  
  
There was something about the look on James's face that implored for an answer, so Thomas sipped his tea before answering.  
  
"Tough to say, I guess," Thomas said. "I mean, I've been attracted to guys before, even fooled around with a few in high school. I've only ever dated women, but that was probably more...you know. Environment. My family, would, uh, not have been very understanding."  
  
"Oh."  
  
James didn't ask if Thomas ever thought he _would_ date a guy. Which was good because then Thomas would have to go into that whole thing about how he'd been fine without a relationship since Martha and he didn't see any need to change that. “So, while we're talking about this, what's your story?" Thomas wanted to know, yeah, but he also wanted to get off the subject. At least in relation to himself.  
  
"I'm gay," James said. "I hope that's not a surprise."  
  
"Not particularly, no," Thomas said. "Out and proud?"  
  
"Parts of my extended family still won't speak to me."  
  
"Ouch."  
  
James shrugged. "It's fine. Everyone who's important has come around. There was this girl I dated in high school who helped me with coming out to them. Dolley."  
  
"Uh, I kinda feel bad for her." He didn't know what he would've done if he'd been going out with Martha for a while and she up and told him she was a lesbian.  
  
"I think she figured it out before I did," James said. "But she was very supportive. We're still friends." His gaze was soft and fond as he thought about her.  
  
"Well, well." Thomas leaned back in his chair and surveyed James. "What about boyfriends?"  
  
"A few," James said. "There was this guy I dated in college for a while. Another PoliSci major. His name was Alex—"  
  
Thomas was not going to ask. It was a coincidence, a _fucking coincidence_ , and that was _it_.  
  
"—We broke up because we weren't really compatible," James continued, oblivious to Thomas being about to spit out his tea just then. "I've had a few relationships since then, but nothing really serious."  
  
"Ah," Thomas said. Then he took another sip of his tea, and James picked up his pen again, and they went back to what they'd been doing.  
  
That was just how things went with them sometimes.  


* * *

  
"So who do you keep texting all the time, Dad?" Patsy asked him one day.  
  
A blatant exaggeration. Thomas just sent James the occasional text throughout the day if he thought of something interesting he wanted to share, and James did the same. That wasn't even _close_ to "all the time", especially not for someone of Patsy's texting habits.  
  
"Uh, I have clients," Thomas said. "You see, I've got a job, and—"  
  
"You keep smiling at your phone," Patsy said. "You don't smile when you're emailing clients. You more like...glare."  
  
That was true, and he couldn't tell her otherwise. He shrugged and grinned guiltily at her. "Let's just say Mr Madison appreciates John Locke more than he lets on at first."  
  
"Oh my God."  
  
"Something wrong with that?"  
  
"Don't get me wrong, Dad, I'm happy you've found a friend. I just...one of my teachers?"  
  
"Shouldn't you be glad I'm getting along with your teachers instead of wanting to fight them for once?" Thomas countered.  
  
"I am, but it's weird that you text him. That's not a thing that parents are supposed to do with teachers unless they're scheduling parent-teacher meetings or something."  
  
Well, Thomas didn't schedule parent-teacher meetings with James, at least not in the usual sense of the term. Just more and more meetings at their coffee shop, and conversations that rolled into hours until the light grew lazy and dark outside and they had to return to their lives. The location stayed constant.  
  
Until one day it didn't.  
  
It was after dinner on a Friday night that Thomas got a text.  
  
**James:** _I have a favor to ask, but it's a bit unusual._  
  
**Thomas:** _Fair warning: if it involves sacrificing my soul, a lot of people would say I don't have one_  
  
**James:** _No souls. Just baked goods._  
  
**Thomas:** _Say what_  
  
**James:** _You see, I bake to relieve stress, and I may have gone a little overboard..._  
  
**Thomas:** _Oh my god_  
_Are you trying to offload the evidence of your sins on me  
Please say yes  
  
_**James:** _I do have a batch of brownies lying around in case you want to come pick it up. : ) I thought you and your family might like it._  
  
Now this was new. They'd kept their meetings to neutral ground so far. James's place, even if it was for a brownie pick-up, was very much not neutral ground considering all that had happened there.  
  
Still, Thomas wasn't about to complain about this, whatever this was. With a quick word to his daughter that he'd be back in a bit, he headed out to James's place.  
  
When James answered the door of his apartment, Thomas's heart sped up a little. Christ, James was wearing a t-shirt. It wasn't a common sight; Thomas had sometimes wondered whether James's entire wardrobe consisted of the nice shirts he wore to school and the cardigans that sometimes surfaced. To be honest, he was glad the t-shirts weren't around that often because the sight of James's bare arms never failed to make something short-circuit in Thomas's brain. James had the sort of arms that made one immediately decide he gave great hugs. Thomas couldn't testify to the truth of that statement because what they'd been doing that night didn't exactly count as hugging, but he remembered the feel of them well enough.  
  
No wonder James didn't wear t-shirts. He'd probably cause goddamn fatalities if he made a habit of it.  
  
For a moment, Thomas saw the way James's gaze scanned him.  
  
"You're wearing glasses," James said.  
  
"Eh? Oh, yeah. I usually wear contacts, but." He pushed his glasses up, suddenly self-conscious. "I'm a damn mess right now, I know."  
  
"If that's what you call a mess, Thomas..." It sounded like there was more to that, but then James shook his head as if to deflect the thought. "Had a rough day?"  
  
"Some clients," Thomas said. "It's like pulling teeth."  
  
"Like dealing with troublesome parents," James said solemnly.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I'm your worst nightmare and I followed you home to torment you further," Thomas said. He stepped into James's apartment.  
  
The place was as he remembered it, simply and neatly furnished in cool, neutral tones. In other words, very much not Thomas's style, although he did like James's tendency to leave stacks and stacks of books lying around.  
  
Thomas crossed his arms and leaned against the door. "I still can't believe you're a stress baker. I never would've expected it, but that's adorable."  
  
James sighed heavily. In a _Lord save me from this_ kind of way.  
  
Thomas couldn't stop himself. "I'm picturing a sweet little apron to go with it. Am I right, or am I right?"  
  
"Quit smirking at me."  
  
"You like my smirk."  
  
"I do," James said. "That doesn't mean you get to throw it around however you want."  
  
Thomas held his hands up in mock surrender. "Your house, your rules." His gaze darted around. "So...where is it?"  
  
James pressed a hand to Thomas's shoulder in a guiding gesture, something casual between friends. "Come on."  
  
He led him into the kitchen, where the fabled batch of brownies was cooling on the counter-top. Although Thomas couldn't judge its taste, it looked good and it smelled good, which usually but not always accompanied tasting good. Not to mention James was allergic to tree nuts, which meant he wasn't one of those heathens who would go and ruin a perfectly good brownie by putting walnuts or some shit in it.  
  
"Man, as good as that looks," Thomas said after a moment of quiet contemplation, "you sure you don't want that all for yourself?"  
  
"My appetite isn't nearly that big," James said. "Besides, I don't even like sweet food all that much."  
  
"But...you baked it in the first place."  
  
"Do you want the brownies or not?"  
  
"Hey, I wasn't rejecting it. Just being altruistic by questioning your altruism."  
  
James seemed to decide there were better things for him to do than try to untangle that piece of logic. "I'll get a container for you." He reached into one of the kitchen cabinets above the counter. The motion made his t-shirt hitch up a little, exposing a strip of skin at his waistband.  
  
Not that Thomas was looking.  
  
James cut the brownie into pieces which he put in the Tupperware container, then popped the container shut. "Here you go."  
  
"Great," Thomas said, but made no motion to take it. It seemed awkward to pop in for less than five minutes only to make off with James's brownies.  
  
They stood there for a few seconds before Thomas said, "It's weird to be back here again."  
  
Maybe he should've let that little sordid aspect of their shared past slip by like it had never happened, as they'd been doing ever since they passed the subject of sexuality, but James looked relieved that he'd approached the topic.  
  
"I was just thinking that," James said.  
  
"Well, now I know you better so I can appreciate your place a bit more," Thomas said. "I've gotta say, it's very...you. Probably 'cause you don't have kids to complain about your interior decorating choices."  
  
James's lips twitched. "I can only imagine what sort of interior decorating choices you make to get that kind of reaction."  
  
"Right now, it's the portraits."  
  
"The portraits?"  
  
"I've got painted portraits of Bacon, Newton, and Locke in the living room, and according to my daughters, that's somehow creepy."  
  
"Ah," James said, as if in perfect understanding. "Your holy trinity."  
  
"You don't seem to find that unusual," Thomas said, encouraged.  
  
"I'd find it unusual from anyone else."  
  
Thomas glared at him.  
  
"Thomas, you see, I only tease you out of affection."  
  
"You do it with such a goddamn straight face, though," Thomas said. "At least when I make fun of you I have the decency to smirk while I do it."  
  
"I suppose we're different in that way," James said. And then he accorded Thomas a smile — a smile soft with affection, warm and genuine. It wasn't anything new. Not from James, who was becoming more frequent in doling out smiles; smiles Thomas became even better at appreciating the more he saw them. "I'd feel bad about asking you to come here and then kicking you out, so...would you like to stay for a bit? I can make us some tea. Unless you have plans, that is."  
  
"I'm told most people have plans on Friday night," Thomas said. "Good thing I'm not one of them."  
  
"It's not as if I am, either."  
  
"I mean," Thomas said, "I gotta go home before too long, you know, but while I'm here, tea would be nice."  
  
It was strange how comfortable he felt standing in James's kitchen, watching him make the tea — and when had he memorised how Thomas took his tea, anyway? — and being in his company. So this was what he'd been missing out while he was too busy to have real friends.  
  
James handed one of the cups to Thomas. "Would you like—"  
  
"Living room," Thomas said. After a day of sitting in his fucking ergonomic swivel chair, he wanted to sprawl out somewhere soft and squishy.  
  
James nodded, and they went to the living room, where Thomas wasted no time commandeering James's sofa. James sat down next to him, admittedly with a bit more restraint. As if he was the guest instead. Neither of them particularly tried to keep distance between themselves; when Thomas shifted in place, their shoulders brushed together.  
  
Thomas looked over at James and found for a moment — a moment he chalked up to exhaustion and work scrambling his thoughts — that he wanted nothing more than to bury his face in the crook of James's neck and stay like that for a while. Nothing to do with James being James, of course. Just a natural desire for human contact.  
  
"If you want, I can turn on the news so we can yell at it together," James said.  
  
"Sweet as that sounds, I've gotta pass," Thomas said. "We can curse out some talking heads another time."  
  
They sat in silence together for a while. Comfortable silence, not awkward silence. It'd been the latter in the beginning, sometimes, when they reached a conversational dead end, but as time went on, Thomas found he and James could just lapse into silence and not need to say anything to each other.  
  
"This is how I'm spending my Friday night," Thomas said at last. "God, I'm old."  
  
"You're not even old, Thomas."  
  
"I mean, I know I look great for my age..."  
  
"Is this really such a bad way to spend your time?" James sounded honestly curious and, if Thomas was reading that right, slightly wary. As if he thought Thomas might actually up and say, _Uh, yeah, I hate every minute I spend in your presence and I'd rather watch grass grow._  
  
For a moment, Thomas considered making a joke of it. Saying it didn't compare to his college days, making a crack about keg stands. Shit like that. But something about the look on James's face made him abandon that idea.  
  
"Better than what I would've been doing otherwise," Thomas said. "'Sides, you're not such bad company."  
  
"No?" James said. "You're fairly tolerable yourself."  
  
"Never thought I'd hear anyone say _that_ about me. Even my own wife used to say I was insufferable."  
  
"Affectionately, I'm sure."  
  
"Ah, well. That depended," Thomas said.  
  
The silence this time was a bit closer to awkward. Thomas didn't make it a thing to bring up Martha in their conversations. James probably had no idea how to react.  
  
Which was why he was surprised when James said, "She must have been a wonderful woman." His tone was gentle, not sounding like he was trying to lay it on too heavily. No pity, which Thomas was grateful for.  
  
"She was," Thomas said. There were a million and one things more he could've said about Martha, but those were for him. How she'd been the warmest, most gentle person he'd ever known. How fucking mismatched they'd been, and how much they'd loved each other anyway.  
  
James was clever, though, and he'd probably pieced together bits Thomas hadn't told him. The basic math involved would've at least been enough to tip him off to the fact that the wedding was a bit more shotgun than Thomas had let on, considering Patsy's age. Christ, had he really had a kid right out of undergrad? Sometimes he thought back to those days and he had no fucking idea how they'd managed any of it. If their families had been any less well-off, even the fact that Martha had become a stay-at-home mom wouldn't have been enough to help them.  
  
Thomas didn't like to think about the other pictures James must've formed in the absence of any information. There was one idea in particular that bothered him, and if he was ever going to set the record straight on that...well, no time like the present.  
  
Thomas cleared his throat. "It probably looks a bit strange to you. That I still wear my wedding ring, I mean."  
  
James didn't look as if the thought had ever occurred to him.  
  
"It's not like that," Thomas said, and couldn't think of how else to say it. He didn't know why it seemed so important to him to let James know this. Maybe he just didn't want James to think he was pathetic. That was it. "It's been eleven years. I've had time to get over it, it's just...habit." Except when he was hanging out in bookstore cafés with the not-exactly-intention of sleeping with a random stranger, but he figured James knew that part well enough for it to go without saying. Belatedly, he added: "Sorry. All that kinda came out of nowhere."  
  
"It's all right, Thomas. I understand." James said, tentatively, "I'm glad you told me."  
  
Thomas chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. "Really? And here I thought you might be a bit put off. I mean, maybe we're not that kind of friends yet."  
  
"What kind of friends are we, then?"  
  
"I have no clue. All I know is you're the only person I talk to on a regular basis who isn't related to me or paying me to design a house." And with that particular admission, he couldn't embarrass himself further. So there was no harm in letting himself lean into James slightly.  
  
James tensed against him for a moment, but then he seemed to relax into the touch. They hadn't had the most physically affectionate friendship so far, which Thomas thought might be residual awkwardness about their one-night stand. Almost if they were actively trying to avoid touching each other if they could help it. But in the moment, this was what felt right, and this was what felt good.  
  
"I guess I should be honoured," James said at last.  
  
"Damn right."  
  
They stayed like that for a while longer, Thomas enjoying the comfortable warmth and weight of James's body against his. In a perfectly platonic context, for once.  
  
At least until he felt a light touch on his arm and looked down. James was touching him. Lightly, barely more a couple of fingers brushing his wrist, as if James didn't know if he'd be allowed anything. James had nice hands, Thomas could say that much. Bigger than his but somehow elegant. To say nothing of what those hands could do.  
  
And that...was an inappropriate thought to have in this moment, and probably exactly the wrong one to have in mind when he turned to give James a questioning look and ended up meeting his eyes. Fuck, but he'd miscalculated what he'd done to their proximity by leaning against him like that, because now James's face was much closer than he'd planned for.  
  
Thomas heard James's sharp intake of breath a moment before he _saw_. That was no accident, the way James's gaze flickered to his lips and then lingered. Actually, Thomas had a feeling he might have been meant to see. James could be sneaky sometimes.  
  
"Uh," Thomas said.  
  
The sound broke the moment. James jerked back, withdrawing his hand as if he'd had an electric shock. "Sorry, I—"  
  
"Hey. I don't know what you're apologising for."  
  
James blinked, as if that wasn't the reaction he expected. But he made no reply, and for a while — for a few clear moments, moments that flickered briefly before heightening — both of them looked without speaking.  
  
Thomas set his teacup down on the coffee table. James did the same.  
  
When James reached out, Thomas didn't stop him. James's fingers brushed against his cheek and stayed.  
  
"I," James began. Thomas saw him struggle with forming the words that followed. "I think I'd like to kiss you now."  
  
Goddamn, he was forward. It shouldn't have been a surprise, not when James had essentially been the one to proposition him that other time. This was a different kind of forwardness, though. Thomas caught the way his beautiful voice wavered; nervous and fumbling, as if he was struggling to keep a grip on the words long enough to string them together.  
  
What could Thomas do? He'd been abstaining from this, trying to stop himself from wanting because he'd thought it'd be more comfortable for both of them that way. But here James was, and he seemed to be down for another try.  
  
"You think," Thomas said at last. "Well, all right. Lemme just wait while you make up your mind."  
  
It came out sounding harsher than he'd intended, but James actually smiled a little. "That wasn't indecision. It was more a request for permission."  
  
"It wasn't phrased like one."  
  
"What would you like me to do?"  
  
Right around this point, Thomas experienced an almost Cartesian disconnect between his mind and his body. As exemplified by the fact that his mind said, _Just kiss me already._  
  
What left the mouth of his physical self was: "You could ask nicely."  
  
And that was an unbelievably insufferable thing to say, so much so that Thomas was almost on the verge of retracting it, apologising profusely, begging James not to be put off, to please just fucking kiss him.  
  
Incredibly enough, James didn't seem to find it off-putting. He laughed instead, fond and exasperated, some of the tension seeming to melt out of him. Then he moved to touch Thomas more fully, added his other hand so he was cupping Thomas's face in his hands. If Thomas's breath quickened at the touch, at the intent way James was looking at him, then nobody else needed to know. "May I kiss you, Thomas?"  
  
The way James said his name was like the auditory version of a caress.  
  
Thomas didn't even bother trying to summon enough coherence to answer that question, only leaned in as James did.  
  
One kiss turned into two, then three. Each more lingering than the last, lips parted but essentially chaste. James's mouth was as soft as Thomas remembered. Only the kissing was different. Gentle and coaxing, a far cry from what they'd exchanged the night they'd slept together. That was all James; he was the one setting their pace.  
  
Thomas's glasses were getting in the way.  
  
James pulled away. "Here, let me..." He slid Thomas's glasses off gently, even though Thomas was half-tempted to rip them off himself. He felt like he hadn't been kissed in years instead of months. He didn't just want; he _craved_. The moment the glasses were away, Thomas put his hands on James's shoulders and pulled him in for a proper kiss.  
  
James's hand slid into his curls, then stilled, then pulled away. So he remembered that first time, when Thomas had told him, _Not the hair._ Thomas almost wanted to break the kiss to tell him that wasn't a problem any more. Thomas didn't trust just anyone to touch his hair, but James wasn't just anyone. It would've been too hard to pull away to say that, not when Thomas was enjoying himself so much, so instead he managed to get James's wrist and guide his hand back to where it had been.  
  
James stopped kissing him for a moment, as what was happening registered. Then he tentatively let his fingers card through Thomas's hair. Oh, yeah, that had been a good decision, especially when James used his hold on Thomas to angle his head, to deepen the kiss, turning it into something breathy and open-mouthed.  
  
Then there was the soft, tantalising sweep of James's tongue against his. Sweeter than Thomas could've imagined, made sweeter when he responded in kind. James matched each stroke of his tongue as easily as if they had kissed on a hundred different occasions instead of only one night. As if this rhythm had always been theirs.  
  
James untangled his fingers from Thomas's hair, instead holding him in place by a hand on his neck. He lightly caressed the side of Thomas's throat, and Thomas could feel his pulse leap. That was bad enough, but then James went and gently sucked Thomas's lower lip into his mouth. So he remembered Thomas liked that.  
  
When they pulled away this time, Thomas thought it might've been because both of them needed a moment to compose themselves. For his part, he was embarrassed to find himself panting.  
  
James leaned their foreheads together. Now that Thomas remembered to breathe, he caught a whiff of some sweet, warm scent. As if the aroma of baking brownies had clung to James.  
  
"Good as the first time?" James asked.  
  
"Can't tell," Thomas said. "Might have to jog my memory."  
  
"I've been wanting to do that for a while."  
  
Thomas didn't need to hear any more. "God, me too," he said, and all but launched himself at James to kiss him again.  
  
The next few minutes passed in a haze of wandering hands and contented sighs. They ended up sprawled together on the couch, which was just big enough for the purpose even if it did squeak worryingly. And James was on him, moving to kiss Thomas's neck, to let his mouth find that place under Thomas's ear that made Thomas shiver.  
  
"Let's hope I don't get beard rash this time," James said quietly. He nuzzled the edge of Thomas's beard, and Thomas could feel the soft rasp of James's own beard on his skin before— whoa, _okay,_ that was new but James definitely needed to keep sucking on that place at the underside of Thomas's jaw, it wasn't like anyone was gonna see if he left a mark there.  
  
"That tends to happen," Thomas managed to say, voice hoarse. It was a wonder he could still string together sentences.  
  
"I took precautions," James said. "They say it helps if you moisturise."  
  
He sounded so endearingly earnest that, even though he'd started doing something sinful to the place where Thomas's neck met his shoulder, Thomas couldn't help but snort with laughter. A bit breathlessly, it had to be said.  
  
"Did you Google that?" Thomas asked.  
  
"Maybe I did."  
  
"Let's test that, then." He placed a hand on the back of James's head and guided him up so they could kiss again. And again. And again.  
  
At some point the couch no longer sufficed. Somehow they ended up on the floor near the coffee table. They'd rolled over a few times, but James was back on top again, and the kissing was hot and heavy and fuck if Thomas didn't want to take it further one step, or two, or infinity. James must've known how badly — shit, it would've been hard not to, given how closely they were pressed together at this point — but beyond undoing the first few buttons of Thomas's shirt, he wasn't trying to make it anything else, even if he did lick into Thomas's mouth in a way that made all coherent thought flee Thomas's mind.  
  
Wanting to send a message, Thomas let his hands travel lower down James's back. Skimming James's hips, the hem of his t-shirt, the work of art that was James's ass. That must have made something click for James, because in the next moment he manoeuvred himself away so abruptly that the breaking of their kiss made a wet _pop_ sound.  
  
"Do you mind if we don't go any further?" James said.  
  
Geographically speaking, everything down south was saying it _did_ mind, but the part of him that wasn't a dickhead — figuratively or literally — knew when to back off. He didn't ask why. James must've had his own reasons, whether they were _it'd feel strange to screw the parent of a student_ , or _I'm not in the market for meaningless sex right now_ , although the latter ached in a way Thomas didn't want to try and rationalise.  
  
"Sure," Thomas said. "That's fine."  
  
"It's that..." James broke off. "This will sound strange."  
  
"Try me."  
  
"I'm just not in the mood," James said hurriedly. The way he said it made Thomas realise it was an honest admission, not a cover for something else. Even though James had initiated this, even though they'd gone further than this before, James honestly wasn't feeling up to it.  
  
Disappointing as that was, Thomas could understand at least to an extent. The trials of raising a kid had acquainted both him and his wife with the concept of not being in the mood to do much more than fool around at the end of the day, whether because of exhaustion or simple lack of desire. Anyway, Thomas could live with the disappointment. It wasn't like he was a teenage boy ready to come in his pants without a moment's notice.  
  
"Okay," Thomas said slowly, but James looked anxious.  
  
"It's nothing to do with you," James said. "I enjoy what we're doing, I just—"  
  
"Hush, darlin'. I get it."  
  
"I feel like I haven't gotten enough of kissing you yet," James said. "I'm happy to do just that."  
  
God, why did hearing those words make Thomas's heart race? Trying to deflect it, he let his fingers toy with the hem of James's shirt. "So...even if we're not doing that, can I persuade you to take your shirt off? As good as it looks on you, I don't think it fits the mood." He paired that with his most flirtatious grin aimed up at James, and in response he got a smile, so that was good.  
  
When James propped himself up to pull his shirt over his head, there was a hesitation to his movements. As if he was self-conscious now the focus was back on him. Something about the way James carried himself in his day-to-day life made Thomas think he might've been a bit on the runty side when he was younger, and even now he didn't seem completely comfortable taking up as much space as he did. It was weirdly endearing, though — a man of his size being slightly shy and completely bookish, with self-professed fragile health and that godawful sense of humour.  
  
And then James was half-naked over him. Thomas studied him, eyes roving over James's body, drinking in every visible inch. Gorgeous. Even more so than the last time, or maybe Thomas had just learned how to appreciate him better.  
  
To some people, knowing they had a definitive limit to how far they could go would've been cause for restraint. Thomas, knowing there was a definitive line he could not cross, took that as an excuse to fucking go to town by doing everything but. By the time he had James under him sighing his name, he thought James might have been glad that his darker skin showed marks less easily than Thomas's did.  
  
This wasn't sex, but it followed a similar rhythm — starting off slow, building until it was fucking explosive, almost too hot to handle...then slowly tapering off, backing down in intensity. It would build back up if given the chance, but they seemed to have fallen into that lull for the time being, and Thomas was content to stay and catch his breath. Now they lay together, James back on top again (Thomas was starting to take note of who spent more time on top, and he couldn't entirely say he minded), and the frantic kisses they'd had a few minutes ago had subsided, replaced by ones slower but more thorough.  
  
For the most part, they just stayed there. James had his head resting against Thomas's collarbone, and Thomas had a nice view of the ceiling. The situation felt familiar, except this time he was mostly clothed.  
  
Not that he didn't still feel that little ache of wanting to do more, but even this by itself was so fucking good. He hadn't thought a bit of kissing and groping could sate him this much. It'd sufficed when it'd been from Martha, but these days, when Thomas had his infrequent casual sex things, he definitely wouldn't have settled for this much. He'd sort of gotten around to the line of thinking that making out was the sort of thing horny teenagers did when they couldn't go any further. It was something to settle for. Foreplay. Not a thing in its own right.  
  
Apparently, he'd been missing out this whole time.  
  
"This wasn't how I'd planned to spend my Friday night," James said at last.  
  
Thomas lazily ran his hand along James's back. "You didn't bring me over here to seduce me with your baking?"  
  
"I've wanted to kiss you for a while now," James said. "I just never felt like I could ask until now."  
  
"Not like you had any trouble kissing me that night."  
  
"I didn't know you then, so I didn't have anything to lose," James said. "It's different now." He raised his head and smiled at Thomas, sweet and a little shy.  
  
Oh, no. Oh no no no.  
  
Thomas had been under the impression this was fun time without strings attached. As in, _I'm attracted to you, you're attracted to me, let's kiss because it feels good and we don't need it to mean anything._ He hadn't seen any harm in a bit of making out. If it became an issue, he thought he could always call it off and assume James wouldn't take any offence to it because it wasn't like it meant anything.  
  
Except. Going by that look on James's face, he had meant for it to mean something.  
  
What.  
  
Okay, maybe they should have talked about this _before_ they ended up dishevelled on the floor. Thomas didn't know whether to blame James for not being upfront about his intentions, or himself for not fucking bothering to clarify that "I think I'd like to kiss you now" didn't mean "I interpreted the moment we just had as romantic tension instead of the residual sexual tension it is." In his mind, physical intimacy had become totally divorced from romance because these days he only ever engaged in the former. He had no idea how to go on with the latter.  
  
Maybe James's mind worked differently. In _his_ mind, asking to kiss someone you'd become friends with was probably meant to be an acknowledgement of some sort of warm fluttery feelings rather than two friends who didn't mind making each other feel good.  
  
Dear God. This was a mess. What the fuck could Thomas say? _Look, man, I think you might have misinterpreted a few things here. See, I'm not planning on falling in love again, so I don't think of you in that way._ So he liked James. Liked him a lot, in fact. And aesthetically speaking, James was very good-looking indeed, and maybe he and Thomas were very compatible in the physical sense, but none of that meant anything. Thomas didn't do that shit any more, so James was looking in the wrong damn place.  
  
Now to figure out how to break the news to James.  
  
Thomas was about to say something — anything, he didn't know — but then his phone gave off that little sound that told him he'd gotten a new text. Any nerve he'd built up in those few minutes was squashed back down at the appearance of a ready excuse.  
  
"Sorry, gotta take this," he said, and James accommodatingly shifted off him as he wriggled around to liberate his phone from his jeans.  
  
**Patsy:** _Can you pick up some stuff for me on your way home??? I'm running low_  
  
Well, apparently a tampon run was gonna be his excuse to get out of there. He texted her back to tell her it was no problem, then looked back at James. "I've gotta go. Family stuff. But that was...wow." What? It was true. That little thing where James had gone and tainted it didn't change that.  
  
James seemed to find nothing suspicious about Thomas making his escape, which meant the problem was postponed for now. He leaned in and kissed Thomas again, soft and sweet. Thomas thought James might've meant it to be a quick peck, but it was as if it became harder for them to move away once they were in each other's orbit. Even though Thomas now knew what he knew, he couldn't help but kiss back. Also, a quick peck would not involve a fluttery feeling in the pit of Thomas's stomach, which was fucking ridiculous to feel _now_ when they'd already spent God knew how long attached to each other's faces. And there wasn't even tongue involved in this case.  
  
When they stopped, James cupped Thomas's face with one hand and brushed a thumb against his cheek. "Before you go, there's something I need to tell you."  
  
Thomas fought down the instinctive panic that gripped him and settled for saying, "Eh?"  
  
"You should probably fix your hair." Almost as an afterthought, James added, "Use a mirror."  


* * *

  
James hadn't been kidding — Thomas had to make quick use of James's bathroom to get himself presentable. By the time he eased his curls back into the positions they were supposed to be in, his lips were less obviously swollen from kissing.  
  
Distracted as he was as he stumbled out of James's place, he had enough presence of mind to pick up what Patsy had asked for, which clearly meant he should win a Dad of the Year award. With additional accolades, since he was delivering her brownies on top of that. Although admittedly he'd forgotten those until James shoved them in his direction as he was almost out of the door.  
  
Upon getting back to their apartment, he knocked on the door to the forbidden sanctum that was Patsy's room. When she finally emerged from the depths, he first handed over the required hygiene products, then held out the Tupperware container with brownies in it and popped it open.  
  
"I know, I'm amazing," Thomas said. "Hold your applause."  
  
Patsy's eyes lit up, but then she regarded him suspiciously. "Where'd you get those?"  
  
"I have my sources."  
  
"That looks home-made," she said. She grabbed one and took a bite. Thomas saw the exact moment it sank in; she looked like she'd had a revelation. "Dad, have you _tried_ these?"  
  
He shook his head.  
  
"Good, so you don't know," Patsy said, mouth already full of a second bite. "More for me."  
  
"Now wait a second, young lady." Even though he now suddenly felt unreasonably guilty taking advantage of the brownie, which was ridiculous, he grabbed a piece anyway.  
  
One taste was enough to let him know what all the fuss was about. James might as well have made a brownie catered to Thomas's exact tastes. It was dense and fudgy and not too sweet, and, well. It might have been the most delicious brownie he'd ever eaten.  
  
Patsy nodded sagely. "Now you understand."  
  
Thomas was kinda starting to regret running away that one time before getting the chance to try James's pancakes. At the same time, he couldn't help but think: _Are you fucking kidding me?_ So James didn't think it was enough to be engaging and clever and attractive. Oh, no. Even the man's baking could make angels weep.  
  
"Um," Patsy said. "Why are you glaring?"  
  
Oops. Probably should've kept all his frowny feelings on the inside. He tried to look less like he had several conflicted thoughts threatening to bubble up in the back of his mind. "You do know we're gonna have to save some for Maria."  
  
Patsy froze, halfway through devouring her third piece. Her expression turned pleading. "She doesn't have to know."  
  
"Patsy..."  
  
"They never turn out this good when I make them," Patsy said, managing to grab another piece before he shut the container and held it out of her grasp. "What's the secret?"  
  
Thomas shrugged.  
  
"No, but really. Where'd you get these?"  
  
"Neighbourhood bake sale."  
  
She rolled her eyes. "Fine, don't tell me. As long as you promise you're gonna get more."  
  
That'd be hard to promise when Thomas didn't even know how this whole thing with James would turn out. Hell, he still hadn't figured out what he planned to do. He supposed he would just have to be honest with James about not being able to do the whole relationship thing at the moment. And then everything would work out fine, and—  
  
Well. He couldn't say things were going to go back to the way they were. Even he wasn't that good at bullshitting.

 

* * *

  
Saturday morning he got a text from James that read, _I'd like to kiss you again._  
  
There was no surer sign that Thomas was out of it than the fact that, upon reading the text, he actually felt his face grow hot. His own awareness of his state of being off-kilter was only increased by the fact that he got the text at breakfast while his daughters were eating the remains of James's brownies alongside their cereal. He hadn't had the mental fortitude to stop them.  
  
Brownies.  
  
For breakfast.  
  
He was well and truly fucked.  
  
After breakfast, Thomas retreated to his study so he could compose a reply, for which he had to compose _himself_ first. So James wanted to kiss him again. That was understandable, given that it had been very good kissing. And all right, Thomas wanted to as well, but that didn't mean he had to _say_ that. Like how he didn't have to mention he was scared the flash of prophecy he'd gotten the night of their one-night stand might start to come true, and he maybe, just maybe, might start to catch feelings too.  
  
No. It wouldn't come to that. Thomas could put it from his mind.  
  
What he needed to do was tell James about their mutual miscommunication, and then...take a break. A bit of distance from James would eliminate any possibility he might fool himself into thinking they could have a thing or that James made him feel anything. In the uncontrollable physiological sense — wasn't there some sort of scientific study out there about kissing leading to messy emotions because of something to do with oxytocin? Sounded plausible, all right.  
  
He typed _I don't want to kiss you_ and then paused. It was blatantly untrue, which Thomas didn't have a problem with, and unnecessarily cruel, which...firstly, Thomas preferred any cruelty to be directed at people who'd done something to warrant it, and secondly, this was James. They were friends. Or had been.  
  
His next try wasn't much better: _What happened last night didn't mean anything._ Okay, so this was true, at least on his part, but again there was something to be said about tact. Christ, if this was the level his diplomacy sank to in a crisis, it was good his grand youthful idea to study international relations and become an ambassador had lasted all of five minutes.  
  
After erasing more words than he could count, he finally ended up with: _Last night was great, but I'm not interested in anything more. I'd prefer we remain friends_  
  
Sending that was painful enough, but even more agonising was having to wait for James's reply, which took almost ten minutes.  
  
**James:** _I thought otherwise._  
  
And then another one: _I must have jumped to conclusions._  
  
And yet another, as if, once James had gotten started, he couldn't stop: _Can we meet up to talk about this in person? I want to clear some things up. I'd like it if this didn't affect our friendship._  
  
This time, Thomas didn't have to start fumbling half-constructed replies to know what he wanted to say, because he already knew what he couldn't say. No _I'm afraid of what might happen if I see you again_ , no _I think I need to stay away so I can start feeling normal again because right now I think just looking at you is going to turn my world upside down._  
  
Two simple words he sent off without a second thought: _I'm busy_  
  
There. Give James time to cool off and get over...whatever last night had been. Give both of them time.  
  
It was better this way.

 

* * *

  
  
On Sunday, it was, _Hello, Thomas. Are you free to go for coffee today?_  
  
On Monday, it was, _I'd like to talk to you when possible._  
  
By Tuesday, James stopped trying.

 

* * *

  
"Oh, and Mr Madison's looked sad all week," Patsy said. "He doesn't say anything about it, but everyone can tell."  
  
Of course that had to be the topic of conversation his own daughter chose. The universe conspired against Thomas to play a heartless joke on him.  
  
Saturday had circled around again, Thomas had managed to put James off for a whole week, and Patsy had declared she wanted to go out for breakfast. It being the sort of rare miracle weekend morning when Maria was amenable to the idea of getting out of the apartment instead of going straight back to her room after breakfast and lazing in bed until lunch, they'd gone to a diner not too far from home.  
  
And now Thomas's own daughter was looking at him and speaking those words to him. It'd been normal enough, for a time — he'd realised he'd been too distracted to ask the dreaded "how's school?" question for the last few days and had taken the chance to ask, and Patsy had gone on about normal things for a while before adding that bombshell like an afterthought.  
  
A sudden thought struck Thomas. "He'd better not be taking it out on you. He isn't, is he?" Because if that was the case, fuck all this. He and James were going to have _words_.  
  
She looked at him oddly. "Uh, no. Why would he?"  
  
"I was concerned, that's all."  
  
"I don't think he'd do something like that," Patsy said. "I mean, I have a few teachers who might—"  
  
"Who?"  
  
She pointedly ignored him. "But Mr Madison's too professional for that."  
  
"He can't be that professional if he goes and brings his emotions into the classroom," Thomas said. Or if he went and made out with the parent of one of his students, but that was another matter.  
  
"It's not like he's really overt about it," Patsy argued. "I mean, he tries to act normal and everything, but he's gotten quieter."  
  
Their food arrived, meaning the topic was briefly put aside as breakfast took priority.  
  
Patsy cut up a piece of pancake, then looked at Thomas askance. "What's this all of a sudden? I thought you liked him."  
  
"Sure I do. But there's a difference between that and seeing him in a classroom setting," Thomas said. "Hey, I can't help it if I take your school stuff seriously."  
  
Patsy frowned. No doubt she was remembering a myriad of occasions where he'd taken her school stuff more seriously than she would've liked. At least she was in high school and therefore required less of his intervention; on the other hand, he doubted anyone at Patsy's former elementary school could forget the stink he'd kicked up after one teacher had insisted her natural hair wasn't appropriate for the classroom. If anyone thought they could infringe on his little girl's individual liberty, they had another think coming.  
  
"Anyway," Thomas began, but then realised Patsy was looking over his shoulder towards the entrance of the diner.  
  
"Mr Madison just walked in," Patsy said in a hushed voice.  
  
What the actual fuck.  
  
Two facts Thomas had managed to forget: that James lived nearby and therefore probably frequented the same sort of radius of places, and that his life was now apparently a bad movie.  
  
"Speak of the devil," Thomas muttered, but Patsy wasn't listening.  
  
"I think the diner's full," she said. "He won't have anywhere else to sit, and he looks lonely. Maybe we should invite him to join us."  
  
"I thought you kids want to _avoid_ your teachers when you see them in public. Y'know, like...that awkward moment when you see your teachers in public."  
  
Both Patsy and Maria looked pained.  
  
"I thought you two were friends, Dad," Patsy said. "It'd be unethical not to."  
  
Thomas raised his eyebrows. "Unethical?"  
  
"Deontologically speaking," Patsy began.  
  
"I'm a utilitarian, so don't even try your Kantian ethics on me."  
  
"Fine, then the felicific calculus—"  
  
Thomas held his hands up in defeat. "You win. Invite him over so I don't have to listen to you butcher Bentham." He couldn't say why he'd given in; it'd been a split-second deliberation. Part of him hoped having his kids with him would defuse the situation of seeing James for the first time in a while, as well as remind him to keep himself in line.  
  
Patsy flashed him a smug smirk. Thomas could swear he'd seen that same look in the mirror, on his own face. She rose from the booth and made her way over to James. Behind Thomas, so he'd have to turn around to see whatever was going on, and he wasn't about to do that.  
  
Whatever transpired, Patsy was persuasive enough to override any qualms James must've felt about having breakfast with the family of a student. Even when said family included one Thomas Jefferson. Somehow she'd talked him into it, and Thomas heard them approach.  
  
By habit, Thomas always sat opposite his kids to keep an eye on both of them at the same time. It'd been a necessity back when they were a lot littler and he'd look away from Maria beside him for a second only to find she'd thrown her food right in Patsy's face. As a result, there was no place for James to sit except beside him. For a moment, Thomas thought this was good because it meant he didn't have to spend the rest of breakfast looking at _James's face_. But then James sat down, and Thomas felt the backs of James's fingers brush against his thigh. Briefly, so briefly. An accident.  
  
It only got worse in the next few seconds as James settled in. Thomas could feel the comfortable weight of James's leg resting against his. Casually. And he didn't push away.  
  
"Thank you, Patsy," James said.  
  
"No problem, Mr Madison," Patsy said. "I thought you might not wanna look for another place to have breakfast."  
  
Her tone was falsely cheery, and Thomas was heartened to realise that she was, in fact, finding this situation a bit awkward. Not that James fared much better; Thomas could practically feel the waves of discomfort pouring off him. Although Thomas himself might have had something to do with that.  
  
Thomas realised there was probably some sort of responsibility on him to speak. "So," he said, turning to James. "It's been a while, huh?"  
  
James smiled at him. It was genuine enough. It was also completely fucking unfair. Why did this man even have a face? "It has." He even managed to pair that with a small chuckle. Maybe he wasn't as mad about the whole thing as Thomas thought. "I guess life gets in the way for all of us."  
  
"No kidding," Thomas said. "I've been swamped with work." He caught Maria's eye over the table and realised she was eyeing both him and James warily. Unlike Patsy, Maria wasn't so good in uncomfortable social situations. "Oh, and this is my other daughter, Maria. Maria, this is Mr Madison." The latter being more out of politeness than anything else, since of course Maria knew who James was.  
  
"It's very nice to meet you, Maria," James said.  
  
Maria nodded in response, then went back to her waffles, looking faintly terrified.  
  
A waitress came over and took James's order. Thomas had thought they might not be all that chatty while they ate — had predicted they'd lapse into awkward silence more often than not — but Patsy and James made an admirable effort to keep it from being awkward by chatting about the weather, and about breakfast, and about weekends. Inconsequential as it was, Thomas wouldn't have been able to make small talk with one of his high school teachers quite so well. God, he was proud of Patsy. And a little sorry for Maria, who hadn't asked to be dragged into this and kept sneaking despairing looks at James, as if she thought her future might end up being like Patsy's: being forced to have breakfast with her school teachers. Since she was a sixth grader, the prospect must've seemed dismal.  
  
Thomas chimed in at the appropriate moments. If he'd stayed too quiet, his daughters would have caught on to there being something strange about all of this. Which was the last thing he wanted. He thought he might've made a few jokes in there somewhere, and James might have laughed at them, and all in all they must have seemed normal on the outside.  
  
Thomas was just about to count this a success. Hell, he was feeling decidedly normal about this now they'd settled into it and he could confirm he only liked James as a friend.  
  
Then Maria started looking at him in the wide-eyed way that meant she needed to use the restroom but was uncomfortable asking in front of a stranger.  
  
"Go on, then," Thomas said.  
  
She got up and scampered off. Patsy accompanied her. Leaving both him and James sitting alone together.  
  
Silence reigned for about a minute. Not the comfortable type he'd gotten used to, but that was gonna be one of the things they had to relearn. At any rate, if James wouldn't say anything, maybe Thomas needed to start.  
  
"And here I was thinking you'd be a whole lot angrier with me," Thomas said. Then he turned and looked at James, and— oh.  
  
James might've done a good job of not showing it in front of the girls, but he was pissed, all right. His gaze was decidedly chilly in a way that made Thomas hope James didn't do that in class. If a teacher had looked at _him_ like that in high school, he would've been tempted to run from the room screaming.  
  
Thomas recoiled. "Clearly, I was mistaken."  
  
When James spoke, there was something in his tone Thomas didn't want to mess with. "How long were you planning on avoiding me?"  
  
"Uh," Thomas said. "I'm guessing 'indefinitely' is the wrong answer."  
  
The look of disgust James gave him made his heart lurch.  
  
At last, James said, "What surprises me is that I'm even surprised."  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
"It's not as if there isn't a precedent for this."  
  
Thomas opened his mouth to protest, considered what he could possibly say in defence of that, then shut it. "I needed to sort out my thoughts," he said instead.  
  
"Well, you sounded like your mind was already made up," James said mildly.  
  
"I was trying to figure out how to move forward with our friendship," Thomas said.  
  
"Which might have been easier accomplished by civil conversation."  
  
_No, it fucking wouldn't have, not when even fucking looking at you or hearing your voice makes me forget that I shouldn't—_ No, no. They weren't going there. They weren't.  
  
"Right," Thomas said. "I'll keep that in mind for the future. Look, darlin'—"  
  
"Don't."  
  
"James," Thomas corrected himself. "After what we did before, I was sort of under the impression it was a little bit of something that meant nothing."  
  
"Well," James said, tone clipped. "Obviously I should've been more upfront about my intentions. Though I don't see why you couldn't have just told me that instead of avoiding me."  
  
"That was shitty," Thomas conceded. He didn't often concede to anyone.  
  
"It was," James said. "It was cowardly. And juvenile."  
  
He might've been describing the sin, but it felt like all those words were aimed right at the sinner. Try as Thomas might to think of a way to respond, he couldn't. The people at every debate club he'd ever been in would've laughed at him.  
  
At last, James said, "I still don't see why you couldn't have just talked to me. I thought we were friends."  
  
_We are,_ Thomas wanted to say, but the words wouldn't leave him. He knew what James would say if he did: friends didn't generally treat each other the way Thomas had gone and treated him.  
  
At least he was saved from coming up with a response when Patsy and Maria returned from the restroom.  
  
They finished up more quietly than they'd started off. Somehow James had managed to finish his breakfast first even though he'd gotten his food last, and he got up to leave. Thomas felt something that wasn't relief.  
  
"Thank you for being so accommodating," James said. "Have a nice day, Patsy. Maria." A pause there for a second too long as he rose to his feet. "Mr Jefferson."  
  
Ouch.

 

* * *

  
Since he'd seen how things stood, something needed to be done. And it needed to be done by him. And so, after a trip to the liquor store, Thomas found himself outside James's apartment, ready to make things right.  
  
Now if only James would let him.  
  
After roughly five minutes of trying to gain entry and being ignored — and this after sending a few texts along the lines of _I'm at yours please let me in_ — the door opened, and there James was, looking at him expectantly.  
  
"I brought a peace offering," Thomas said, holding it out. He'd agonised for a good half-hour, trying to pick out a bottle of wine good enough.  
  
"A bribe," James said.  
  
"An apology. I might not drink any more, but I know you do, and I figured you deserved something nice." As an afterthought, he added, "I thought it might help smooth things over."  
  
"Bless your heart."  
  
Thomas frowned. "Look, can I just come in?"  
  
James didn't say anything, only turned around and went back in. Which Thomas took as permission to enter.  
  
He followed James to the kitchen and set the wine bottle down on the counter. Belatedly, he realised there was a tray of muffins cooling nearby. More stress baking.  
  
As Thomas pondered the implications of this, James picked up the bottle and scrutinised it. After what looked like a careful inspection, he concluded, "Well, I'm not going to whine about it."  
  
A-ha. Pissed, but not pissed enough to decline a chance to sneak an awful pun into the conversation. Maybe this would work.  
  
"Can we talk about this?" Thomas said. "It's kind of getting to me."  
  
"All right," James said. "Then talk."  
  
"I was hoping for a dialogue."  
  
"Were you? My mistake," James said. "I must have been emulating your example."  
  
Good to know James had flaws that were irritating instead of endearing. Case in point: he apparently got really fucking petty when he was mad. That sort of shit was only cute when it came from Thomas himself. When it came from someone he was trying to have an actual constructive conversation with, it was just annoying.  
  
This wouldn't work unless Thomas swallowed his pride. And so, though every genuine apology Thomas had ever made had felt like barbed wire in his throat, he forced himself to choke this one out anyway. "I'm sorry about treating you the way I did."  
  
James raised his eyebrows as if he was amazed they'd even gotten this far. Which was fucking annoying. Like Thomas couldn't be genuinely contrite and heartfelt when he was feeling it?  
  
He'd show James. He'd apologise so fucking well.  
  
"I shouldn't have reacted the way I did," Thomas said. "I'm not gonna make my excuses, since I think you might've gotten enough of them. Anyway, it was partly my fault for making you think that night was something it wasn't." He took a deep breath. "I know you probably don't want to see me around after all that, but I'd like to keep being friends."  
  
This last bit didn't seem to go over as well as he might have hoped.  
  
"You don't have to offer me friendship like it's some sort of consolation prize," James said. "Don't pity me."  
  
"I'm _not_ ," Thomas said, genuinely exasperated now. "And I'm offended on your behalf that you even thought that. You ever consider the radical notion that I'm offering because I like spending time with you and being your friend? Christ, what did you even think I was _doing_ for the last few months if not enjoying your company?"  
  
Seemed he hit more of the right notes with that. James looked startled, but in a good way, which Thomas took to mean he was on the correct track.  
  
Now to clinch the deal. Part of his pride didn't want to admit it, but..."I missed you."  
  
For a few moments, James was quiet. Thomas looked him right in the eyes, trying to prove he had nothing to hide. That was a bit harder than he'd anticipated — despite the distance between them, he could see how dark and intense James's eyes were. Then there was the searching way James was looking at him, as if trying to gauge how sincere he was. Making Thomas feel strangely exposed. Nobody else could have made Thomas quite that vulnerable, but James was different. As Thomas was constantly finding out.  
  
At last, James sighed. "I may have missed you too," he admitted. He looked as if he was searching for something else he could say, but whatever it was never made it out. Instead, he said something that clearly wasn't what he'd meant to say. "Let's just...put all of that aside."  
  
"Right," Thomas agreed readily. Almost too readily. Something about this solution didn't sit well with him, but hell, what else could they do? They hadn't gone and outright addressed that little thing of James apparently having feelings for him. James didn't bring it up, and they weren't at a point where they could speak of it candidly. Thomas should have felt concerned that his friend might possibly be harbouring such feelings for him, feelings he couldn't return. To be honest, though, he was just glad he didn't have to deal with it head-on. Might've made things too awkward.  
  
They stood there awhile, looking at each other. Then Thomas cleared his throat and said, "Good to have you back, man. I should head home now." He didn't think there was much else that could be done for the time being.  
  
James didn't smile, but he inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Okay. See you, Thomas."  
  
There was no good reason for relief to flood him like that at James saying his name for the first time again, but it did. Thomas chalked it up to the warm and fuzzy feeling of friendship.  
  
"See you, James," he said. And left.  
  
Things had gone _almost_ as planned. After getting some time away from James, Thomas had managed to cool down, put things in perspective, and see this was the way things would be. Whatever James might've convinced himself he felt — and Thomas had no doubt he'd get over that soon enough, if he hadn't already — what lay between them was friendship. Friendship, and nothing else.  
  
Now things would go _exactly_ as planned if he could make himself believe that.

 

* * *

  
For no good reason, this whole thing with James made Thomas remember something Martha had once said. Back in college, after he'd gone and fooled around with another girl at a party. He'd grovelled, and even though Martha had said she forgave him it wasn't the same, and he didn't get why things wouldn't go back to normal until she said—  
  
_Forgiveness isn't the same thing as trust, Thomas. You're going to have to work to earn that back._  
  
He'd thought about that a lot after she'd gone. It was a good way to beat himself up, wishing he could take back all those things even though he knew he never could.  
  
James wasn't Martha, God forbid. But Thomas liked to think he'd learned at least a little something from his past mistakes, and so he recognised that the onus was on him to fix whatever it was he'd fucked up in their friendship. Even if James forgave him, that didn't mean the trust was back there. So Thomas would have to take the initiative to show James that he'd meant what he'd said, and he was going to try not to be such a shitty friend, even if what he really wanted to do was push some sort of fast-forward button and skip to the point where things were back to normal.  
  
When he texted James the next day, inviting him to meet at the coffee shop, the reply he got was: _Okay. See you there. : )_  
  
The inclusion of the smiley face shouldn't have made Thomas feel so relieved.  
  
When they actually met, there was an awkwardness there; it couldn't be avoided. But it went...well enough, even if they spent more time not talking than talking.  
  
They did it again a few days later. And again. Maybe this was how it had to happen. Slowly and gradually. Maybe they'd get back to being proper friends again. Friends and nothing but.

 

* * *

  
The world outside didn't stay put, and soon enough Thomas realised Christmas holidays were almost upon them, and with that, he had to figure out what to do for Christmas.  
  
Christmas in the Jefferson household tended to vary. They'd done everything over the years, from leaving home to spend Christmas with extended family to restricting it to just immediate family. Even, on one memorable occasion, doing nothing at all.  
  
Martha had taken to the Christmas spirit with more enthusiasm than he ever had, at least after Patsy was born and he had to curb his enthusiasm for alcohol, which made the holidays that much less fun. When it'd been the two of them and Patsy, Thomas had been happy to let her take the reins. After she'd passed away, he'd...well, he'd _tried_ to make the holiday season good for his daughters, but Martha would've done a far better job than he ever could have.  
  
As they'd grown older, he'd taken their input more and more. In the end, it was Maria who decided their plans for this year. She was probably anxious about the idea that her older sister would soon be leaving home for college, and though she didn't say it in as many words, Thomas could tell she wanted it to be the three of them without having to entertain any aunts and uncles and cousins. He found no reason to argue with that, so that was how it would go.  
  
James would be travelling to spend Christmas with his family, which...that had surprised Thomas. Every time he was reminded of James's life outside of seeing him, it gave him a little jolt.  
  
Despite holiday season being so close by, he somehow failed to connect the dots when James sent him a message asking if he could swing by for a little while. Not once in their few months of friendship had James ever visited Thomas's place. Considering Patsy, that might have been another level of awkward for her to find her teacher in her home.  
  
But Patsy was holed up in her room, and it wouldn't hurt her if James stopped by. So Thomas agreed.  
  
James arrived a short time later. Thomas let him in, then regretted it after seeing the look of utter amusement on James's face.  
  
"And you teased me about the idea that I might have a frilly apron," James said.  
  
Thomas crossed his arms. "I was about to start making dinner, all right?"  
  
"Let him who is without the frilly apron cast the first stone, Thomas."  
  
Only then did he notice what James was holding — a slim package wrapped in brown paper. "What's that?"  
  
"I have to give you your Christmas present, don't I?"  
  
"Whaaat," Thomas said. "I'm getting a present?"  
  
"You sound surprised."  
  
"I was sort of expecting coal." He hadn't expected reciprocity even though he'd bought a present for James when he'd been doing his present shopping, although he'd sort of planned on giving it to him once he got back. It had been motivated more by guilt than anything else — under normal circumstances, he might not have even thought of it, but he felt like he owed it to James to show him that he wouldn't flake out on him. In a way, though, it was also because James was James.  
  
"Well," James said, with a small smile. "'Tis the season to forgive."  
  
Thomas guided him to the living room, and although James cast a doubtful look in the direction of Bacon, Newton, and Locke, he didn't comment.  
  
They sat on the couch, Thomas telling himself there was no reason for him to still have weird feelings about James in conjunction with couches. At any rate, this wasn't like that time. There was a small distance between them, and though neither of them tried to make it overt, it was there.  
  
Thomas thought that particular happening might pass by unmentioned since neither of them had even acknowledged it in a while. To his surprise, James went and brought it up.  
  
"I also came here because I wanted to return things to normal between us," James said. "So you can...you know. Stop feeling uncomfortable around me."  
  
" _Uncomfortable?_ I don't—"  
  
"It can't exactly be comfortable for you to think I have feelings for you but act like you don't know," James said. "So I wanted to clarify." He cleared his throat. "I don't actually have feelings for you. I think it was..." He waved his hand weakly, his gaze imploring Thomas to help him finish that sentence.  
  
"Residual sexual tension?" Thomas suggested.  
  
"Right," James said. "It must be easy to mistake for something else. It probably got in the way since the way we started our acquaintanceship was...unconventional." He chuckled. "But I can tell you, that's all over now. I see you as a good friend and nothing else."  
  
Thomas was relieved. He told himself he was relieved. This was what he needed so he wouldn't fuck this up. He'd wanted this all along. Right?  
  
Right.  
  
"Hey, it's all good," Thomas said. "Whatever it was, I think we got it out of our systems." _And I am definitely not remembering that kiss and looking at your mouth and wanting to do it again._  
  
God, he was so full of shit. Maybe they both...no. This was easier if he believed at least James meant it. It made things simpler.  
  
"Right." James looked relieved. "I'm glad we can talk about this openly, you know? And that it doesn't make a difference to the way we are now." His gaze softened. "It's good to have you around, Thomas."  
  
"You too," Thomas said. "I mean, I can't exactly say otherwise and then abscond with your present, man."  
  
James seemed much more comfortable having gotten that off his chest. He still had the package in his hands, and despite himself, Thomas found he was very curious about what was inside.  
  
"I'm really bad at choosing presents," James admitted. "I keep wanting to buy everyone books."  
  
"What's wrong with books? Books are great."  
  
"I wanted to at least try to step out of the box. And after rejecting lists with names like '50 Gift Ideas for the Francophile in Your Life'—"  
  
"You mean you didn't get me a crêpe pan? I'm disappointed." He laughed at the look on James's face. "Kidding. I'm sure it's fine."  
  
"Open it first before you say that," James said, and passed him the package. "I'd tell you to keep it under the tree until Christmas, but I know you too well."  
  
Admittedly, this was way more exciting than it should have been. Not that his daughters weren't thoughtful gift-givers — although their skills had admittedly improved with age, not that he hadn't appreciated all the macaroni art Maria used to give him — but a present from James felt _different_.  
  
After grappling with the brown paper wrapping, what he was left with was...one of the prettiest books he'd ever seen, that was for sure. Looked like it must've cost a fortune. He'd realised it was a book the moment he touched it, but considering how things tended to go with him and James, he'd expected political philosophy or some shit.  
  
Instead, it was violin sheet music.  
  
"Oh," Thomas said blankly.  
  
"I ended up getting you a book anyway," James said sheepishly. "I know you love music, and you mentioned once that you used to play the violin but you haven't in a while. I thought some inspiration might be nice." He looked anxious as he watched Thomas for a reaction, and Thomas realised his features probably weren't arranged in the right way to express gratitude.  
  
Well. He owed James an explanation. Fuck, when had he even mentioned that he played the violin? Must've been over one of their conversations. There were so many he was starting to forget what he'd told James, what James knew about him.  
  
"Martha used to play piano," Thomas said. "Sometimes I'd accompany her on the violin. After she passed away, I didn't have much of a reason to play. I mean, I've kept it in good condition and sometimes I take it out and look at it, but. You know."  
  
James's expression was one of guilty mortification. Actually, he almost looked a little as if he might cry, which was definitely not what Thomas had intended. "I'm sorry," he said. "I've really put my foot in it, haven't I?"  
  
"You haven't," Thomas said.  
  
That only surprised James even more.  
  
"Really," Thomas said. "I mean it."  
  
"I'm sorry that—"  
  
"Don't you dare apologise," Thomas said fiercely. "I mean — this is _good_ , all right? I need this. There's no reason for me not to start playing again and there never has been."  
  
"Thomas," James said, and he still looked so upset about his perceived _faux pas_ that Thomas didn't know how it happened, except that he awkwardly reached out to pat James on the shoulder like James was the one who needed comforting, like James was the one with the dead wife angst, and James leaned into it and somehow Thomas found himself enveloped in a hug. And...all right, that definitely confirmed it: James gave great hugs. Jesus, he was so big. And warm. And smelled like coffee.  
  
It was brief, because there were unspoken rules of social interaction about how long hugs had to be between two men who were just friends. When they drew apart and looked at each other, it was more intense than Thomas would have liked for his own comfort.  
  
"Hey," Thomas said, touching James's shoulder lightly one last time before withdrawing his hand. "I'll play something for you when you get back."  
  
James schooled his face into an expression of utter seriousness. "Do you take requests? There's this song my students like to sing that goes, 'You used to call me on my—'"  
  
"My God, just piss off." He grinned at James anyway, and when James smiled back he felt warm all over.  
  
When the moment of light-heartedness passed, James looked as if he was still racked with guilt. As if he thought he'd dredged up all sorts of miserable memories and Thomas would spend the whole night looking at old photos and crying once James left. He might have done that once upon a time, but it'd been eleven years. He missed Martha, but he'd had enough time to tailor his life around the massive void she'd left behind. He'd had time. He'd healed. He'd moved on with his life.  
  
Except — if that was the case, why was he so scared of falling in love again?  
  
If this had been debate club, he was pretty sure what he'd just thought would count as kicking his own ass. Because he had _no good answer_ to that.  
  
Thomas got to his feet because this was not the time. "Now you stay there while I get you your present."  
  
"I'm getting a present?" James said.  
  
Thomas recognised James might be poking fun at him rather than expressing any genuine confusion, but he chose not to dignify it by acknowledging it as such. "Actually, _mon chéri_ , yours was the first one I bought. I saw it and I knew I had to get it for you."  
  
James looked absurdly pleased with that, his lips parted with surprise. Thomas wanted to take James's face in his hands and kiss him, again and again— _No._ Not the fucking time.  
  
He liberated his present from the corner of the study where it'd been for a while, then returned to the living room and to James. James raised his eyebrows at the sight of it; the violet and gold wrapping paper Thomas chose probably didn't suit his tastes. Not that the paper mattered. Only the inside counted.  
  
"Just so you know, you've gotta open it now so I can make sure you like it," Thomas informed him, passing him the box.  
  
"I had a feeling you'd say that," James said. He gingerly peeled the wrapping off. When he'd opened enough of it that he saw what he'd gotten, he froze.  
  
"Chess," Thomas said unnecessarily. "Pretty sure you said you like it, but you're out of practice. Hey, look how that happened."  
  
"Thomas, this is too much."  
  
Thomas could at least see why James might have reservations about accepting the gift. The chess set was one of those fancy ones where both the board and the pieces were made of marble, with a velvet storage case thrown in there. It was one he could easily have bought for himself, but he hadn't had anyone to play with before James came along. Neither of his daughters had expressed much of a desire to learn.  
  
"No, it isn't," Thomas said, "because it's as much for me as it is for you. Who do you think is going to play chess with you, hmm?"  
  
"Isn't this game a bit monarchical for us?"  
  
"Hilarious as you are, I'm going to have to ignore that remark in favour of pointing out that I'm probably as out of practice as you are. Might do us both some good to get back in the habit. After all, it's a worthwhile intellectual pursuit."  
  
"That it is," James conceded. Though he was reluctant, he was warming up to the idea, and his gaze was soft. "Thank you, Thomas."  
  
Thomas was seized by the urge to keep James there for a while longer so he wouldn't have to say goodbye for the holidays.  
  
"Play chess with me, James," Thomas said.  
  
James blinked. "What, right now? Weren't you meant to make dinner?"  
  
"C'mon. Speed chess. One minute a move."  
  
"Thomas," James said, "this is going to be a disaster."  
  
"I know. That's what makes it amazing."  
  
When his daughters emerged from their rooms, they found dinner not yet started, and Thomas and James staring intently at the board, which they'd set up on the coffee table. Thomas, focused on the game as he was, briefly saw that Patsy's expression was somewhere along the lines of wondering what the fuck James was doing in her home. Maria, meanwhile, actually showed interest in watching them play.  
  
Neither interrupted to break his concentration, which Thomas took to mean he'd raised the greatest kids ever.  
  
More to the point, James was proving to be a formidable opponent. His mind seemed to work at lightning speed — Thomas could see the intelligent, analytical look in his eyes as he scanned the chess board, brow furrowed with intense concentration. Okay, so maybe Thomas spent more time looking than he should've, and his performance might've suffered as a result. When James acted all calculating like that...frankly, it was hot as hell.  
  
Dear God. Thomas was getting turned on by chess. At this point, not even a cold shower could help him. He probably needed to go to Antarctica and live there for a while to cool off.  
  
Still, Thomas had a generous estimation of his own intellectual abilities. Which was why he was completely blindsided when James, out of nowhere, said, "Check."  
  
A few moves later, it turned into: "Checkmate."  
  
Thomas flung his hands into the air in despair. "Bullshit you're out of practice. I'm taking my present back."  
  
There was a sly little smile playing at the corners of James's mouth. "I told you I was out of practice because the chess app on my phone doesn't count."  
  
"Oh, you are the worst, you know that?" He turned to his daughters and put on his best mournful puppy-dog face, hoping for moral support from the two people who were obliged to support him. "He just kicked my butt."  
  
"Good," Patsy said savagely. "Since this is why there's no dinner."  
  
"You're hopeless, Dad," Maria chipped in. Still quiet, still shy in James's presence, but apparently not too shy to heckle her own father.  
  
"It was all him," Thomas said, turning an accusatory eye back to James. "Wasn't it?"  
  
James laughed. "On that note, I'll just...go."  
  
"Okay, _someone_ needs to start dinner," Patsy said. "Looks like it's Kraft Mac again tonight."  
  
She left, and Maria went after her protesting that it didn't have to come to that yet.  
  
"I really should be going," James said.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Thomas helped him gather up the chess pieces and pack it all away in the case so James could leave with his present.  
  
At the door, as Thomas waited for James to leave so he could close the door after him, James paused and turned to Thomas as if expecting something. He looked about to say something, then said nothing.  
  
"See you when you get back," Thomas said, and put a hand on James's shoulder for a moment. He was absurdly tempted to lean in to see how James would respond. Whether he would pull away, or whether...no. He couldn't do that. Not when they'd started this little meeting off by finally establishing where they stood. By finally fixing it.  
  
"See you," James echoed. Then he turned to leave.  
  
Thomas watched him go. And felt absurdly lonely the moment James was out of sight.

 

* * *

  
Making himself hold off on getting in touch with James too quickly after the fact was difficult. He told himself James would be travelling, and then spending time with his family, and then he'd be too busy to spare time for Thomas. Besides, Thomas had his own shit to do in the days leading up to Christmas. Better things to do than spend his time longing for James, or hoping James might reach out to him first, hoping James still thought about him.  
  
Now he knew why he'd been so afraid of falling in love. It was all-consuming and distracting and frankly ruining his life more than a little.  
  
It took until Christmas Eve for him to cave. Christmas Eve breakfast was pancakes, which his daughters had insisted on making themselves so he could relax. Sweet as the sentiment was, Thomas would be finding flour tucked away in unlikely crannies of the kitchen for the next few weeks, since they hadn't managed to figure out how to scoop it without getting more of it out of the mixing bowl than in it.  
  
As nice as it was to get to spend more time with his daughters, something was missing. James was probably spending time with his family and didn't have a thought to spare for him. So when Thomas got a text message after breakfast, he expected it to be some family member remembering he existed because of the time of the year.  
  
It was James. _Good morning. : ) I've retreated into a corner of the room to escape the family interrogation and I'm hoping you can distract me._  
  
It was difficult to keep the grin off his face as he texted back.  
  
**Thomas:** _What's this interrogation_  
  
**James:** _Family being family, asking me when I'm going to settle down with someone nice._  
  
Thomas reined in his instinctive response, which was a pointed reminder that, hey, Thomas was pretty settled down already. That would only have succeeded in confusing James. No, he had to be cool about this.  
  
**Thomas:** _So no handsome guys to catch under the mistletoe? ;) ;) ;)_  
  
**James:** _Everyone here is either related to me or dating someone related to me, so no. I appreciate the encouragement nonetheless._  
  
Thomas didn't know what he would've done if James had said there were, in fact, handsome guys to catch under the mistletoe. As things stood, the reply was more reassuring than it should ever have been.  
  
A sudden thought struck him.  
  
**Thomas:** _Please tell me you have an ugly sweater_  
  
The response took a bit longer to come than anticipated. It was a picture of a bashful James wearing...oh, yeah, that was a fucking hideous sweater, but James filled it out so well. He had a mug of hot chocolate in one hand.  
  
It was the cutest fucking thing Thomas had seen in his life.  
  
**James:** _I'm entrusting you with my reputation here._  
  
**Thomas:** _I hate to break it to you but you're not exactly the kind of guy from whom ugly sweaters would be a surprise_  
  
And he kept scrolling back up to that picture. Before he could talk himself out of it, he'd saved it. And set it as the lock screen on his phone. Gone was the picturesque shot of the Paris skyline that had graced it for so long, replaced by James and his ugly sweater. Thomas had never made a better choice in his life.  
  
If Thomas was to be honest, Christmas Eve in their house mostly consisted of lounging around. Thomas had heard that normal people watched movies together, but Patsy shared his distaste for anything conventionally called a Christmas movie, and according to her she was waiting until Maria was old enough so they could watch what she said would be their first "proper" Christmas movie, _Die Hard_. As such, all the space that activity would have taken up was occupied by sitting together in the living room and reading together in silence. Thomas had described it to another parent once and gotten a pitying shake of the head, as if he was punishing his kids by forcing them to read instead of letting them celebrate Christmas Eve, but apparently he'd managed to raise two kids who were bibliophiles like him. At any rate, none of them minded the chance to be quiet and get lost in a good book while enjoying each other's presence.  
  
He wouldn't have said he was actively trying to put James from his mind, but it was easier to achieve a level of selective thinking about the whole thing when he was spending time with his family and being happy, with that picture of James in the back of his mind. That made it seem cute and ideal, and overshadowed how, when Thomas looked at it closer, it became a ridiculous, unattainable dream because of the terms they'd set for themselves. He'd blown his chances with James and he knew it.  
  
But he managed to avoid the fact for the rest of the day. At least until the kids went to bed some hours after dinner, and Thomas was left wide awake and hopelessly needy. It was harder to distract himself when he was by _himself_ , and after some time holed up in his study making mental lists of reasons it would never have worked out with James anyway (or trying to; he couldn't think of a single one, and even the age difference seemed like a flimsy excuse when it was only eight years), he moved to wishing he'd given into his urge the other day and bought some booze so he could pour himself a proper drink for the first time in eleven years and get tipsy in the privacy of his study and just fucking forget.  
  
By the time midnight rolled around, he'd given up on trying to mask how fucking pathetic this whole thing was making him, and so he reached for his phone.  
  
**Thomas:** _Did you survive family time Merry Christmas James_  
  
He was surprised when he got a quick reply.  
  
**James:** _Surprisingly enough, I made it through the family interrogation intact. Merry Christmas, Thomas._  
  
**Thomas:** _Whoa what  
Wasn't expecting you to be up_  
  
**James:** _It's rare for us to go to bed before midnight on Christmas Eve. Family tradition, I suppose. What about you?_  
  
Thomas did not write, _It's midnight and I've finally accepted that I'm painfully in love with you and I have no idea what to do with myself any more._ That didn't make for such a catchy text.  
  
**Thomas:** _My kids went to bed awhile ago. I'm not sleepy_  
  
**James:** _I'm going to turn in soon, since I do feel tired._  
  
**Thomas:** _Bonne nuit mon chéri_  
  
James was without a reply for a worryingly long period of time, at which point Thomas had plenty of time to run through scenarios where James read something into the French endearments. Maybe he was uncomfortable with the idea and going to ignore it and pretend Thomas had never said it, or—  
  
**James:** _Do you know what I'm never going to understand about you?_  
  
**Thomas:** _What_  
  
**James:** _The way you can reach for diacritics every time you want to speak to me in a language I don't understand, yet punctuating the ends of your sentences is apparently beyond you._  
  
Thomas couldn't help it. Chalk it up to nerves, or an overwrought mind, or whatever, but he had to put his phone down so he could laugh. He laughed until he was out of breath at the sheer indignation he could feel radiating from James's message, at the fact that this, _this_ was the guy who'd had him up until midnight.  
  
If he was going to be in hopeless love with someone, there were far worse people he could have fallen for.  
  
**Thomas:** _Miss you too darling xoxo_  
  
Before he could even talk himself out of it, he'd pressed the call button. After a few moments during which he imagined James looking bewildered, wondering why Thomas chose to call him now, James picked up.  
  
"Thomas," James said tentatively. In the background, the sound of muffled chatter. The Madisons were a lively bunch right up to midnight.  
  
"Hello, James," Thomas said, idly pushing himself with his feet so his swivel chair would do a little spin.  
  
"Are you drunk?"  
  
"Nope, darlin'. As sober as they get."  
  
"It's very nice to hear from you, but is there a reason you're calling?"  
  
"The kids have gone to bed and I'm all on my lonesome. Just wanted to hear a familiar voice before I sleep." James's voice, specifically, but he didn't have to say that. "After all, it's Christmas."  
  
"Oh," James said, and he sounded surer of himself now. He didn't seem to find Thomas's request at all strange. "Well, like I said, I'm going to bed, so...is this enough of my voice?"  
  
"Just about. Good night, James."  
  
"Sleep well, Thomas." James was either smiling, or very good at sounding like he was smiling. Whichever of the two it was, it didn't matter. Thomas could sleep now.

 

* * *

  
The rest of the holidays passed as Thomas expected. Pleasantly and James-lessly. (Speaking of James, the poor man woke up on Christmas day with a cold and spent more of the holidays than anyone should have had to shuffling around and sneezing and being miserable. There was that weak constitution he'd mentioned.)  
  
Remembering the promise he'd made to James, Thomas took out his violin and tried to play again. It was light-years more frustrating than he had imagined; he was more rusty than he'd ever thought he could be, and progress came as slowly as molasses. Sometimes he had to stop himself from smashing the damn thing out of frustration.  
  
Maria had never heard him play, so if she ever heard the strains of music wafting from his study, she didn't know the significance of them. Patsy did, and one time, when Thomas was in the middle of practice, he wasn't at all surprised to hear a soft knock.  
  
When he called for her to enter, Patsy came in. "You're playing the violin again," she said.  
  
"Sure am."  
  
Slowly, hesitantly, she said, "You haven't played since Mom, have you? I remembered that suddenly one day you just...stopped."  
  
"I'm playing now."  
  
"Can I listen?"  
  
He nodded, and she took her seat on the swivel chair.  
  
To be honest, he felt bad for her eardrums considering he was still awful at this, but she didn't seem to mind. All she seemed to care was that he kept on playing.  
  
So he did.

 

* * *

  
Playing for James when he got back was cause for a bit more anxiety. Thomas wasn't anywhere near approaching the standards he held himself to in this matter. He tried to tell himself it didn't matter, it wasn't as if James was going to hate him if he played badly, it wasn't like Thomas owed him this. The feeling remained.  
  
James didn't return from his parents' place until after New Year's Day, which gave Thomas more time to practice but also meant he missed James more. Finally getting to see James after their separation — which had lasted a little more than a week — was proof that absence made the heart grow fonder. So fond that Thomas insisted on conducting his violin recital in the living room instead of the study because he didn't know if he could stop his mind from straying if they were somewhere his kids couldn't walk in on them any minute.  
  
James was seated on the couch, smiling up at him encouragingly.  
  
And Thomas took a deep breath and began to play.  
  
God, he was so fucking _bad_ at this. He'd need way more than the time he'd had over the holidays to get back up to scratch, but he tried to focus on not grinding his teeth at the cacophony he perceived coming from his instrument and instead focus on playing. At some point, he gave up and lowered his violin. Part of him didn't want to look at James and see his reaction, but when he did...  
  
"James, are you crying?"  
  
"No. Maybe," James said. "Do you have Kleenex?"  
  
Half in a daze, Thomas pointed to the tissue box sitting right on the coffee table. James wasted no time in grabbing a wad and blowing his nose with a sound like the honking of a car horn.  
  
"It's not even a sad piece," Thomas said, amazed.  
  
"You've never watched a sad movie with me, Thomas. I get misty-eyed at everything."  
  
"Guess I'm gonna have to cancel my plan to ask you if we could watch _Brokeback Mountain_ together." It was a joke, but it was also a little alarming that that was the first sad movie that'd popped to mind.  
  
"Don't start," James said. "The part with the shirts actually makes me sob."  
  
Now that was the gayest thing he'd ever heard James say. Only because moaning didn't count as speech.  
  
"I'm still not sure what I did to elicit such emotion," Thomas said, "since I thought that was utter shit."  
  
James didn't refute that. Instead, he smiled weakly at Thomas. "I'm just glad you started playing again. Could you play another one?"  
  
"Seriously?"  
  
"I'd like to hear it."  
  
Thomas was a man in love, and men in love did ridiculous things. So he willingly subjected himself to the humiliation of his own playing yet again at James's request. James didn't cry at all this time, which was good.  
  
Halfway through, he got another audience member, although why anyone would subject themselves to it if they didn't have to, he didn't know. Maria had come over, seen him playing, and perched on the other side of the couch to James to listen. When Thomas stopped playing, she clapped. James cast her an amused glance, then joined in.  
  
"I didn't know you played the violin," Maria said.  
  
"It's been a while," Thomas said casually. The last thing they needed was to have a touching Martha-related conversation in front of James, who might turn into a waterfall if they got into it now. "Hope my crappy playing didn't stress you out too much, James."  
  
"Actually, it did," James said, perfectly deadpan. "I might have to go make another batch of brownies now."  
  
Maria perked up at the mention of brownies and looked between James and Thomas so questioningly that Thomas felt like he had to lay to rest whatever she was thinking.  
  
"It's true, Maria," Thomas said. "Now you know who made those mystery brownies."  
  
"You _did?_ " Okay, there went her shyness. She was looking at James as if he was her hero.  
  
"Guilty as charged," James said. "Did you like them?"  
  
"They were the best brownies I've ever eaten," Maria said, "way better than the stuff from the store, and Dad doesn't know how to bake properly—"  
  
"Hey," Thomas protested.  
  
"What's your recipe?" Maria asked, looking at James wide-eyed.  
  
"Nothing special," James said. Thomas thought he might be secretly pleased with the attention. "I get all of my recipes from the Internet."  
  
"Oh. That's what Dad does." Maria looked ponderous. "Maybe he's just naturally bad at it."  
  
"You wound me, kid," Thomas said.  
  
"What else can you make?" Maria said, really getting into it. "I've always wanted to learn how to bake properly."  
  
"I can make most anything if I have a recipe and ingredients," James said.  
  
Thomas couldn't resist asking. "Even macarons?"  
  
"I'll have you know I make incredible macarons. They're perfectly smooth and have feet."  
  
Goddammit. Just when Thomas thought he couldn't get any more infatuated. So these were his weaknesses: chess and macarons.  
  
"You should take this one under your wing," Thomas said, inclining his head at Maria. "She keeps reading food blogs and lamenting my lack of kitchen ability."  
  
"I'm free right now," James said. "I can show you how to make something right now if you want." He addressed this directly to Maria.  
  
Maria had been regarding him with respect ever since the macaron statement, and the moment he made his offer, she went wide-eyed, then turned to Thomas as if wondering whether this was really okay.  
  
"And...if you're all right with me using your kitchen and your ingredients, Thomas," James added. "If you like, I can pay you for—"  
  
"My God, spare me that talk," Thomas said. "Just go ahead."  
  
James nodded, then turned to Maria. "How do you feel about cookies?"  
  
He couldn't have found a faster way to Maria's heart if he'd tried.  
  
Some minutes later, Thomas watched with amusement as James and Maria moved around the kitchen, setting the whole thing up.  
  
"You look good in my apron," Thomas said. He liberated a can of soda from the fridge and cracked it open, taking a sip as he observed them.  
  
"Are you just going to stand there and watch us?" James said.  
  
"Uh-huh," Thomas said. "Won't stop me from sampling the fruits of your labour, though."  
  
"It's more fun to do than to watch," Maria said wisely.  
  
Ah, young ones. Little did they know. Thomas was having plenty of fun watching James navigate his kitchen. There was nothing higher in entertainment value than the moment James opened one of the cabinets and went still, as if he couldn't quite believe what he'd been confronted with the sight of.  
  
"Thomas," James said, "why are there about a dozen boxes of Kraft macaroni and cheese stashed in here?"  
  
"Dinner," Thomas said. "Sometimes lunch."  
  
"Breakfast if we're really unlucky," Maria said, faintly queasy.  
  
James looked nothing short of concerned by that revelation, but he went back to pulling ingredients off the shelves.  
  
"There's a bag of chocolate chips somewhere in there," Maria said. "Dad said he was going to make something with them but he never did."  
  
"Is that so?" A moment later, James unearthed the bag in question. "Well then. I think we can make chocolate chip cookies."  
  
"Trust you to pick the cutesiest of all cookie varieties," Thomas said. "Like this scene needed to get any more disgustingly heartwarming than it already is."  
  
James blinked. "Aren't the frosted ones with sprinkles cutesier?"  
  
"Okay, that's true." Thomas shut up and watched as James showed Maria how to measure out flour properly — shit, maybe _that_ was why Thomas's attempts at baking flopped — and a whole host of other things Thomas tuned out, preferring to just look at James because this was a real thing that was happening. He had James in his kitchen showing his daughter how to make chocolate chip cookies while he stood in a corner nursing a can of soda and a hopeless secret crush. That shit was either out of a romantic comedy or a tragedy.  
  
When he decided to listen to the conversation again, James was giving Maria an impassioned lecture about the difference between when to use baking powder and when to use baking soda.  
  
"All right, I'll bite," Thomas said finally. "What's the fun in baking if you're not gonna eat what you make?"  
  
"I eat it sometimes," James said. "The sweetness gets to my head after a while."  
  
"Doesn't answer my question."  
  
"It's relaxing. The measuring, the mixing." James pointed to the kitchen scale. "Look. Exactly two hundred grams of brown sugar. There's something poetic about that."  
  
"I'm really glad you're too young to have gone to high school with me. I would've hated seeing you get stuffed in lockers every day."  
  
"Dad, that's terrible," Maria said.  
  
Thomas grinned, unapologetic.  
  
He ended up leaving the kitchen to take a phone call since he couldn't exactly hear over the sound of mixing, which was now in full force. When he stepped back in, Maria was eating something. At the sight of him, her eyes went wide and guilty, and he immediately knew what must have happened.  
  
"You let her sneak some cookie dough, didn't you," he said. It was a testament to how fucking gone he was that he didn't even feel pissed off about James going and feeding his kid something he never would've let her eat if it'd been up to him.  
  
"Is there something wrong with that?" James said.  
  
"Uh, yeah," Thomas said. "Ever heard of salmonella?"  
  
James looked absolutely baffled, to put it lightly. Then he burst out laughing. "You really never...?"  
  
"Raw bird embryo is no laughing matter."  
  
"Your eggs are pasteurised. The probability is so infinitesimal it's not even worth thinking about." James shook his head. "And you once called me a hypochondriac."  
  
"Wait, you seriously do it?"  
  
"Of course I do," James said. "And it's about time you faced that irrational fear."  
  
"Now, wait a second," Thomas said, but James had already turned to the bowl and scooped up some of the dough with a spoon.  
  
He held it out to Thomas expectantly.  
  
"You cannot expect me to eat that," Thomas said.  
  
"But it's really good," Maria said.  
  
"Thomas," James said, and, well. He could've said Thomas's name in that tone and Thomas would've gone to the moon for him if he'd asked.  
  
Which didn't stop him from glaring at James right before he closed his mouth around the spoon.  
  
Hey. That wasn't so bad. Actually, it was good. _Really_ good. Probably still an unhygienic mess riddled with unspeakable bacteria, but good.  
  
"Well?" James said.  
  
Thomas swallowed before saying, "As good as this is, I'm blaming you if I contract a terrible disease."  
  
"That's a bit dramatic."  
  
"Darlin', you've known me for how long, exactly?"  
  
James laughed. "I suppose you're right." He turned back to the bowl.  
  
Thomas crept up behind him and rested one hand on James's shoulder, leaning over his shoulder and reaching over as if trying to grab some more cookie dough.  
  
James swatted him away effortlessly. "The rest of this goes in the oven." Still, James didn't push him away. For a moment, Thomas allowed himself to entertain the idea of just being able to come up behind James in a situation like this, while James was in his kitchen; to loop his arms around James's waist and hold him from behind. Nuzzle his neck a little, trail kisses along the line of his jaw. God, how Thomas wanted.  
  
Thomas pushed those thoughts away, but didn't push away from James. "Jerk," he muttered in James's ear, fingers still curled against James's shoulder.  
  
Not quietly enough, apparently, because in the next moment he became aware of a resentful pair of large brown eyes directed his way.  
  
"Don't call him a jerk," Maria said. "He's nice."  
  
"I'm allowed to call James a jerk. We're friends."  
  
Still she frowned at him.  
  
"This is what you've done, James," Thomas said. "You come into my home, you feed my daughter raw eggs, and then you turn her against me."  
  
"I'm afraid I can't help it," James said. Then he started explaining to Maria that it was usually better to chill the dough, and some shit about browned butter, and Maria was nodding as if James was bestowing words of wisdom, and Thomas took that as his cue to step away again.  
  
Watching them made his heart ache a little. If things were different, maybe this might have become a regular thing he could witness. James in his home, James in his kitchen, James getting along with his daughter. James living with him. It was one of those things that would never happen, he'd managed to make sure of that, but it didn't stop him from wishing.  
  
Good thing Patsy was over at a friend's house. Even if this scene was great for him, he didn't want to think about how strange it would've been for her.  
  
Once James had Maria scoop the dough onto the cookie sheets and put it all in the oven, they had about twelve minutes before they could see any results. Maria was now busily chatting away to James and didn't seem likely to stop at any point. Actually, Thomas didn't think he'd seen her quite so energetic in some time. It helped that James wasn't being particularly difficult to talk to — he sounded genuinely engaged as he talked to her, asking questions and never once condescending to her, which was just about the best way to make Maria clam up.  
  
So now Thomas knew both of his kids liked James. And he also knew that there was a chance more infinitesimal than salmonella poisoning that anything remotely family-like could happen. It would've been ridiculous to fantasise about even in normal circumstances, but now, after they'd explicitly shut the gates to taking their relationship to a not-friendship level, it was even more hopeless.  
  
Eventually the cookies were ready to be taken out of the oven. James insisted on leaving them to cool for ten minutes, but the moment that was done, all three of them crowded around the cookie sheet.  
  
"You should get the first cookie," Maria said to James. "Since you did most of the work."  
  
"I have to accept that honour," James said, and picked up one of the cookies.  
  
Thomas wasted no time in swooping in and taking a bite of it as it was right in James's hand. It was a bit of an undignified move, but he succeeded in startling James so much that James released his hold on the cookie, which meant all of it ended up in Thomas's mouth for the taking.  
  
" _Thomas._ "  
  
"Man, you don't even _like_ sweet stuff," Thomas said around a mouthful of soft baked good and melty chocolate.  
  
Maria regarded him as if he was the most embarrassing human being to ever walk the Earth. "My dad can be very immature," she said to James, sounding so exaggeratedly haughty that Thomas almost choked on his cookie in his efforts not to burst out laughing.  
  
"He can," James said, but there was a fond smile on his face that stopped the comment from stinging the way it might have.  
  
Maria still looked appalled at Thomas's blatant gluttony and snatched one of the cookies as if afraid he'd start wreaking havoc and cramming the entire contents of the tray into his mouth. A moment later, her horror at her father's actions cleared up into an expression that was nothing less than sheer reverence for James's creation.  
  
"This is amazing," she said.  
  
"Seriously," Thomas agreed, finally done with making an ass of himself in front of James. "If you don't like sweet stuff, who ate all your stuff before we came along?"  
  
"I had a few friends I could trust to take care of the problem before I moved here," James said. "Trust me, Dolley can demolish a tray of cinnamon rolls by herself."  
  
"Huh," Thomas said. "And now you've got us. Though I'm not sure I want you constantly feeding my daughters stuff like this."  
  
"It can't be any worse than the macaroni and cheese," James said.  
  
"That's not even close to the same thing."  
  
"Of course it isn't," James said in a tone of perfect earnestness that Thomas had come to recognise as pure unadulterated 100% bullshit. James pulled his phone out and checked the time. "I should go. It was nice speaking to you, Thomas. Maria."  
  
"You should come over sometime soon," Maria said, not even trying not to sound eager. "Bye, Mr Madison."  
  
James made towards the door. Thomas went after him.  
  
In the open doorway, James paused and turned to Thomas. He looked as if he was struggling with something he wanted to say. Whatever it was, he never said it. "Good to see you again, Thomas."  
  
"Good to see you too," Thomas said. "You've, uh, made quite an impression." He glanced over his shoulder, where the sounds of Maria devouring the rest of James's hard work reached him faintly.  
  
"I like her," James said. "She seems like a good kid."  
  
"She looks like a good kid but she can be a holy terror."  
  
"So she takes after you."  
  
"Hey," Thomas said. "I'm a holy terror on the inside _and_ the outside."  
  
"That you are." James's gaze was so fucking gentle and warm. For a moment, the urge to grab him and kiss him breathless was so powerful it made Thomas want to scream. He wanted— God, he didn't know what he wanted. He wanted to kiss James all over his face, not just his amazing mouth but fucking everywhere.  
  
Christ, how was he meant to live like this? He'd given up on denying it to himself, but that didn't make it any less painful.  
  
He could do it right now, he realised. Nothing stopping him from telling James how he felt. Nothing stopping him but himself. At least he knew James wouldn't panic and avoid him. Not the way Thomas had acted.  
  
No. If he was going to do this, it wasn't going to be on an impulse.  
  
"See you, Thomas." And then he was gone, and Thomas pulled himself together so he could lock the door.  
  
He went back to Maria, who was making short work of the cookies.  
  
"He's nice," Maria said. "You should ask him to move in with us."  
  
"What, so you can ruthlessly exploit him for his culinary skills?"  
  
She clasped her hands together innocently. "Something like that."  
  
Thomas laughed. "Trust me, kid, nobody wants that more than I do."

 

* * *

  
Even though he'd somewhat made up his mind, Thomas kept coming up with reasons not to tell James about his feelings. Number one being their relationship had finally settled into a reasonable balance after all that earlier messiness. Agonising as it was not to have James know, Thomas was selfish enough to think it might be worth it if he got to reap the benefits of their friendship.  
  
Number two: he was the one who'd insisted nothing could happen because he didn't feel that way about James, and James had told him that, upon further reflection, he didn't feel that way either. Which, yeah, he might've been bullshitting, but did Thomas really want to take his chances? Having to eat his words was embarrassing enough.  
  
Number three: he couldn't think of one. Except that constant thing he couldn't stop thinking about, which was how he was scared of getting hurt or being rejected by someone he really cared about. Like he'd done to James.  
  
Fuck that. He was done pretending. He was going to tell James. What was the worst that could happen?  
He was in the middle of a particularly bad Friday where he'd locked himself up in his study working himself sore and had a crappy phone call with a client and just wanted to go to the coffee shop and relax and look at James's face and hear James's voice. If things went wrong with James, all that would happen was a bad day becoming worse.  
  
**Thomas:** _Meet up at the usual place today? Bring the chessboard if you like because I'm ready to kick your ass ;)_  
  
**James:** _Sorry, I can't._  
  
That was unusual. Even when James couldn't make it, he said why, even if it was just a vague thing about being busy.  
  
A slight pang of worry gripped Thomas.  
  
**Thomas:** _Everything ok ?_  
  
**James:** _Everything's fine. Don't worry. : )_  
  
A few moments later, almost like a guilty admission, James added: _I have a date._  
  
Without even thinking about it, Thomas typed out _what_. Except he'd gone overboard pressing the letter "a", so what he was left with was _Whaàaaàaaaàaaaàaàaaaat_. And, as therapeutic as mashing his touch screen was, it didn't change anything.  
  
A date. James was on a date.  
  
Thomas had to take a breath and remind himself this was fine. This wasn't fucking _high school,_ he was not a jealous teenager, and James was at a perfect liberty, as a grown man, to date whomever he wanted to date. Especially when Thomas had turned him down on that front and he probably thought the whole thing was a hopeless case. Every action had its equal opposite reaction.  
  
Just as Thomas had made up his mind, some random asshole beat him to the punch.  
  
Thomas paced around the living room. Then finally texted back: _All right. Enjoy your date._  
  
So this was how it would be. And he'd just have to get used to it. He couldn't tell himself it was fine. James was the one who had moved on, and now Thomas was the one who was so in love with him that it ached.  
  
A while after this particular exchange, he ran into Patsy on his way to the kitchen.  
  
"Dad, can—" Patsy caught his expression. "O- _kay._ That's the migraine face. Got it." She clumsily patted him on the shoulder. "You want some green tea?"  
  
"Nn," Thomas said. "Ice pack. Dark room."  
  
"Feel better, Dad," she whispered as he went by.  
  
His daughter was so sweet. Probably because she didn't know what a fuck-up he was.

 

* * *

  
Thomas acted on impulse the next afternoon. He told himself he was just being a nice person by doing what he was about to do. See, he realised he never returned James's Tupperware from that one time with the brownies. Which was rude, and he needed to return it at the nearest convenience.  
  
At least that was his excuse for showing up at James's place unannounced.  
  
James was home when he knocked, which meant he'd either not spent the night at some random guy's place or he'd gotten out of there early instead of hanging around. "Thomas. What are you doing here?"  
  
"I was cleaning my kitchen today and I sort of realised I still have your Tupperware, so I thought you might...need it." He held it out.  
  
James looked nothing short of bemused by the fact that Thomas had come over just to do that, but he accepted it. "Thanks. Do you want to come in for a bit?"  
  
"Yeah, sure." Thomas entered and surreptitiously started scanning the place for signs that anyone else was there. After coming up blank, he decided to address the problem head-on. He turned to James and asked, "How was your date?"  
  
James raised his eyebrows like he was surprised that was what Thomas chose to open with. "It was all right. Nothing serious. A co-worker asked me out for a coffee and I agreed."  
  
"Are teachers allowed to date other teachers?" Thomas said.  
  
"I don't see that there's any problem with it. It already happens."  
  
"Well," Thomas said. "He's a lucky guy." _Did you kiss him?_ Oh, he could not fucking ask that. Not like he had some sort of exclusive claim on James's mouth. Or any claim at all, after how he acted.  
  
"He's nice enough," James said. "But I don't think he'll be asking me on a second date."  
  
Thomas sucked in a breath. "Why not?" He didn't know whether he felt relieved or— indignant? Was that a thing? He sort of felt like it was. What sort of person asked James Madison on a first date and then decided he wasn't worth a second one? A jackass, that was who.  
  
James took his sweet time before answering. He was too preoccupied with opening one of the kitchen cabinets and stashing the Tupperware back in there. When he spoke, his tone was deliberately even and steady. Almost artificially so. "He said I was obviously still hung up on someone else. And he was right."  
  
Thomas's heart gave a single, painful beat.  
  
"Who?" he asked.  
  
"I don't feel like playing games right now, Thomas." James didn't sound angry. Just weary. Finally, James turned to face him. "You're too intelligent to act like you don't know about my feelings for you."  
  
"Still?" Thomas blurted.  
  
That might not have been the best thing to say. Even James had his limits. And what Thomas had said might not have sounded as he wanted it to sound.  
  
"Yes, _still,_ " James snapped. "For God's sake, Thomas, I never stopped. I'm sorry if it— it inconveniences you. I know you don't feel the same, but—"  
  
"I do."  
  
James stared at him. "You...what?"  
  
Fuck, this was it. Either now or never.  
  
Thomas took a step towards James, then another. He drew in another breath, trying to stave off the panic prickling along his nerves. It was no use. The words spilled from him in a rush.  
  
"I'm in love with you," Thomas said. "I've been in love with you since before Christmas, or— I think I only realised it then, who the hell knows how long it'd been before that? And I...this would be so much easier on paper. God, I don't know what to say, I've never done this sort of thing before, not like this, and goddammit, James, say something because right now you're making me really fucking nervous."  
  
James was leaning back against the kitchen counter and surveying Thomas with frank astonishment. "I was trying to let you talk." He sounded dazed.  
  
"I was full of shit," Thomas said. "All that about only seeing you as a friend — that's crap. I'm in love with you but I don't _love_ you. It's way too fucking soon to even get close to that. But what scared me shitless was that, given enough time, it could happen. With you, fuck...it'd be so easy."  
  
James's face had been unreadable at the beginning of that, but then the strangest thing happened. As Thomas went on, James smiled.  
  
It made him happy. Just the fucking possibility of it made him happy.  
  
"I thought you meant it," James said. This time, he was the one who took a step. "About only seeing me as a friend."  
  
"I thought I did too," Thomas said. "At least at first. But then, when I was about to get around to thinking that wasn't the case..."  
  
"I went and told you it didn't mean anything," James said.  
  
"Yeah. Yeah you did. I knew I was full of shit when I said that, I just...I thought _you_ meant it." He ran a hand through his hair. "I kind of thought I'd lost the ability to feel shit like this. Turns out it's not something you lose. It's more like...when you haven't practised a language in a while, and you feel like you should understand, but you've forgotten so many words. Or like..."  
  
"Like playing violin for the first time in years?"  
  
Yes, Thomas thought. Yes.  
  
They stood there, an arm's length of distance between them. All that space suddenly seemed too much, too big.  
  
Thomas didn't know if James moved first or if he did. Just that closing that gap became the most important thing in the world.  
  
"Please," James whispered, his arms around Thomas. His first attempt only managed to get far as the corner of Thomas's mouth; Thomas turned his head, and the second try clacked their teeth together because not even this could go smoothly. Third go around, and— yes, God, perfect.  
  
James's grip on him tightened. Each kiss was like coming apart in the best way possible, and Thomas wound his arms around James's neck and kissed him hungrily, pulled him closer, closer. It was almost too much, and Thomas felt like it'd all be taken away from him at any moment, like he wasn't allowed to have this — and every moment proved him wrong because that was still James, James's hands running along his sides and back as if trying to map out every inch of him, James's mouth capturing his again and again until his knees were weak and he couldn't think.  
  
When they pulled apart, both of them were gasping. It'd been a long, _long_ time since anyone had kissed him like that. Passionate not for the sake of a quick fuck, but because he was him. The stunned look on James's face must've mirrored his own.  
  
"Holy fuck," Thomas said blearily. "What took us so long? Don't answer that."  
  
James laughed, low and breathless. Looking at him, Thomas really wanted to kiss him again, but the desperation was gone, and it took a moment to understand why. There was no more urgency to it. He no longer felt like this was the only chance he'd have.  
  
Thomas brushed his hand against James's cheek. "Hey." He smiled, and James smiled back. Making it harder for Thomas to kiss him again because he _wouldn't stop smiling._  
  
It happened eventually. And kept happening for a while.

 

* * *

  
They ended up moving to James's bed. As exciting as that sounded, it ended up being a lot of fully-clothed kissing interspersed with some much-needed talking. Because yeah, maybe that whole communication thing was something they needed to work on, and now seemed as good a time as any.  
  
"So," Thomas said. "This is a thing."  
  
They lay on their sides, facing each other. Thomas would never admit how much of that time he'd used studying James's face, trying to memorise each of his features. Turned out there wasn't a lot of work to do in that regard. Without even realising it, he'd done a lot of memorising over the last few months of them knowing each other. Which didn't mean he couldn't take the chance now to appreciate the curve of James's lips or the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.  
  
"Do you want it to be?" James said, as if Thomas would say _no_ to that after all this.  
  
"Ugh," Thomas said. "Do you ask inane questions like that when you're teaching? I thought that job was meant to be reserved for your students."  
  
"Patsy is one of my students," James said. "Would you say she asks inane questions?"  
  
"Not her, obviously. I'm talking about everyone else's kids," Thomas said. "And...hey. Isn't there some sort of rule about not dating the parent of one of your students?"  
  
James considered this. "I don't think there's a specific rule against it," he said, "but might cause problems for Patsy if it was out in the open."  
  
"Especially since it's me," Thomas said. "Breaking news: Asshole Parent Jefferson stoops to screwing a teacher to get his daughter good grades."  
  
"It's a good thing Patsy's in her senior year."  
  
"Yeah," Thomas said. "So what do we do until she goes to college? Sneak around?"  
  
"I wouldn't call it that," James said. "It's no problem if we're friendly with each other, after all. And whatever happens behind closed doors...well, it's our business and nobody else's."  
  
Thomas had to kiss him again for that. Just for the heck of it. And James was very efficient with his hands — somehow he managed to use one hand to play with Thomas's curls even as his thumb brushed against Thomas's cheekbone, and it was a good thing they were already lying down because Thomas thought he might've found himself slithering to the floor in a boneless heap of joy otherwise.  
  
"It's a thing," James murmured, practically against Thomas's lips once they managed to pull away. "Definitely."  
  
"Wow," Thomas said. "I can't wait to make that announcement to my kids."  
  
James winced in sympathy.  
  
"I mean, Maria's not gonna mind. Heck, she'll probably be ecstatic, since she wanted me to ask you to move in with us that time you came over—"  
  
James burst out laughing. "Did she really?"  
  
"What can I say? She knows what she wants." Thomas frowned. "Patsy, though. I mean, she likes you, but that's different. All the people in this world and I end up with her teacher."  
  
"I don't think I would've been happy with that as a teenager," James said.  
  
"Me neither. You're not going to be her teacher for much longer, but." Thomas shrugged as well as he could while lying down. "I think I'm gonna wait before I break the news to them, you know?" He reached out and touched James's face. "Maybe you should come over to my place a few more times, though. So they can get used to seeing you around. And the idea you might be around there...more."  
  
James's smile was like sunshine. Thomas immediately wanted to scrub himself for thinking something cheesier than Kraft macaroni, but there it was. If the way Thomas was looking at James right now was even the palest imitation of how James was looking at him with sheer fucking wonder, then he was so so gone.  
  
"Come here," Thomas said, and leaned in to kiss James all over his face — his cheeks, his nose, Thomas didn't care where. He felt James's surprised huff of laughter.  
  
"Thomas Jefferson, cold-hearted terror feared by all the faculty," James said once Thomas released him. "If they could see you now."  
  
"You should be grateful. I'm giving you the best job security you could ask for."  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"If they find out you're the only one who can handle me, they'll bow down to you wherever you go," Thomas said. "You're gonna be in so much demand the moment Maria enters high school."  
  
"I like the sound of that."  
  
"You've gotta be careful, James. They might try to sway you to their side. Make you go undercover and find out my one weakness."  
  
"I already know your one weakness," James said. "Neck kisses." He set to proving it.  
  
"Oh, you are diabolical, you know that?" Thomas sighed. "Also, I didn't say you had to stop."

 

* * *

  
Thomas had understood what all the books and movies and songs were about. Once. But he'd sort of thought that was a once-in-a-lifetime thing, like what Martha had made him feel once they'd gotten their shit together could never be replicated.  
  
None of it seemed so impossible any more. And, well...Thomas couldn't pretend none of it was having any effect on him when it so obviously was. Actually, he thought the kids were getting suspicious. The change in his mood was noticeable enough that Patsy and Maria had already commented on his unusual cheerfulness.  
  
He managed to last a week before he caved and told them.  
  
It happened on one of their weekend outings as a family, although this particular one wasn't an outing so much as it was Thomas being carted around a mall by his daughters as they dragged him from place to place looking for clothes. He'd long since learned neither of them wanted his input in that matter, so his job mainly consisted of standing outside changing rooms and waiting.  
  
At least he had something to do this time, even if he felt a bit like a teenager texting James now. He couldn't help but do it several times a day anyway. Not to the annoying level since both of them were adult men with lives, but when he had a free moment and nothing else to do, sometimes he would send off a message to James. At least they texted much as they'd always done without needing to make every conversation about cutesy endearments. And if James sent smiley faces more often than he had before, or if Thomas made an effort to punctuate the ends of his sentences when he felt James had done something to deserve it, they didn't need to speak of it.  
  
Thomas broke the news to his daughters as they were eating lunch in the food court. He started by putting his fork down and clearing his throat. "Girls, you know I love your mother very much, don't you?"  
  
He'd planned this out. Even if it took place in the food court of a mall, it was going to be profound and emotional.  
  
Instead, he got his daughters exchanging a look, and Patsy mouthing _Here it comes_ at Maria.  
  
"I saw that," he said.  
  
"Mom was the love of your life," Patsy said dutifully so he didn't have to repeat himself like a stuck record like he'd been doing for basically all of Maria's life. "Go on."  
  
"I'd never try to replace her," Thomas said.  
  
"Uh-huh," Maria said.  
  
"That being said, if I started seeing someone else," Thomas said, "how would you feel about that?"  
  
He expected some sort of vehement reaction. Surprise that he was considering it when he'd never dated since Martha passed away, maybe. Even disbelief or anger.  
  
Maria continued blowing bubbles into her Sprite. Patsy shrugged and said, "Eh."  
  
"I thought y'all'd've had a bit more of a reaction than that."  
  
"Dad," Patsy said, "we've had forever to get used to the idea you'd start dating someone else. We just thought _you_ didn't want to because you still miss Mom so much."  
  
Was that what they'd thought this whole time? Granted, it was true, or had been until recently, but it was kind of sad they both assumed he was still languishing after Martha.  
  
"I do miss your mother," Thomas said, "and I probably always will. But that doesn't mean that I can't move on."  
  
"So this isn't all, you know..." Patsy hesitated. "Hypothetical? So far, I mean. Like, do you actually..."  
  
"I'm seeing someone," Thomas said.  
  
Neither of them looked surprised at that, which Thomas took to mean he hadn't been nearly as subtle about his recent behaviour as he thought. They did both look more lively all of a sudden. Thomas supposed it was one thing to have suspicions and another thing to get confirmation.  
  
"Is she nice?" Maria asked at the exact same moment Patsy said, "What's her name?"  
  
A-ha. Heteronormative _this_ , Patsy. (Although it was his fault that she thought he was straight, not hers.)  
  
He'd thought through what to say, but he didn't know if there was really anything that would help in this situation.  
  
"He's very nice," Thomas said. He registered the startled look on Patsy's face and ploughed on. "His name is James Madison."  
  
"I told you!" Maria nearly knocked over her Sprite in her eagerness as she turned to Patsy, who was still sitting there staring blankly at him as if she'd either not heard or registered. "I _told_ you, but _no_ , you said—"  
  
"Whaaat," Patsy said.  
  
"Ah," Thomas said. "I know this must be a surprise, honey, but..." He gestured helplessly.  
  
"Hold up a second, I'm still processing." Patsy blinked hard a few times, then looked right at him. " _Mr Madison_? You don't even _like_ my teachers most of the time, you're always talking about how incompetent they are, and..." She sighed. "This is really happening."  
  
Meanwhile Maria was wriggling in her seat with barely-suppressed glee, although Thomas didn't know how much of that was happiness that it was James and how much of that was Jeffersonian joy at being right about something while somebody else was wrong.  
  
"This is really happening," Thomas said. "I knew you'd feel strange about it, but I was wondering whether you'd feel any better about it if we promised to be discreet so that nobody from school can accuse—"  
  
"It's not the school stuff I'm thinking about," Patsy said. "It's just. Mr Madison. You."  
  
"I thought you like James— Mr Madison."  
  
"I do, but," Patsy said. "It's just so bizarre, right? I know you're friends with him and all that, but most of the time I just see him at school and I see you at home and it's...I don't know."  
  
"It's gonna take some getting used to," Thomas admitted.  
  
"Yeah. Yeah it is." Patsy shook her head. "I mean, I am gonna get used to it. If he makes you happy, I have to."  
  
Proud as Thomas was of his daughter for showing such maturity, she still looked like there was something more on her mind. He knew these things.  
  
"What's wrong, Patsy?" Thomas said.  
  
As if she couldn't hold it in any more, Patsy blurted out, "So you'd be okay if I told you I wanted to take a girl to prom, right?"  
  
Maria didn't even blink, which Thomas took to mean he was the only one here who found this to be news. Except it wasn't really news. Patsy was his daughter, and though he couldn't say he'd known, he sure as hell had suspected. For a long, long time.  
  
"All I can say is she'd better give you a corsage that matches your dress," Thomas said. "No child of mine is going to prom without colour coordinating."  
  
She smiled at him, and though it stung a little she hadn't thought he would be okay with it in the first place, these things took time. Thomas had a feeling it would all work out.

 

* * *

  
"I still can't believe this is where you chose to take us for our first proper date," Thomas said.  
  
From a purely poetic perspective, Thomas could appreciate the symmetry of it. That didn't mean he didn't want to groan at James because seriously, if this was what the man got up to when left to his own devices, Thomas was declaring date night as his sole domain from now on.  
  
Scheduling it had been a challenge. Even though they'd officially been together for about two weeks at this point, things had kept popping up which made it difficult to find time. And, once Thomas gave James free rein as to where their first official date happened, James dragged both of them to...  
  
"The bookstore café," James said, as if he saw nothing wrong with that. "You have to admit, it makes a certain sort of sense."  
  
"I have to admit nothing of the sort," Thomas said, leaning back in his chair. They'd even gotten the same table and everything. Good God. "Darlin', if someone asks where you took me for our first date, I'm going to have to tell them. I'm going to have to tell them you took me to the same place we met right before you invited me home for meaningless sex."  
  
"Oh, you think that's bad?" James said. "Wait until I start making an anniversary scavenger hunt."  
  
"You are the unfunniest bastard I've ever met, you know that?"  
  
James smiled at him. "You don't mind."  
  
"No, I don't mind," Thomas said. "Any of that. And that's why I'm here right now. Someone help me."  
  
James reached across the table and put his hand atop Thomas's. Another thing that was the same besides the setting: Thomas wasn't wearing his wedding ring. Except this time, that state would be a bit more long-term.  
  
He still had the ring. He just didn't have to wear it.  
  
"You know," James said eventually, his wonderful voice low in a way that made Thomas shiver as his thumb stroked the back of Thomas's hand in a way that was frankly unlawful, "I'm open to this ending the way it did last time."  
  
"Up to and including the part where I run off home at the end of the night," Thomas said. That was one part of this whole thing he regretted, but he couldn't leave the kids home alone for the night, and he didn't think they were at the stage of acceptance of the relationship where James sleeping over at their place wouldn't make things more than a little weird for everyone. He _was_ more than looking forward to when they could do that. As it turned out, James was very good at cuddling.  
  
Thomas moved to lace their fingers together. James accepted the touch and squeezed his hand in return. His way of saying he knew Thomas would stay if he could.  
  
"Now," James said, "you should probably let go of me so I can set up the chessboard."  
  
"Right," Thomas said. "I forgot about that really romantic aspect of this whole date."  
  
Not that he would've admitted it under anything but duress, but he actually did think that was pretty fucking romantic.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no self control, so there is a non-zero chance there will be more. Hence the series.


End file.
